


dead on time

by space_goose



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Death Threats, Drunken Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, freddie thinks John is a murderer, gone from crack to just murder, is he right? probably, its just slightly serious crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-02 23:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_goose/pseuds/space_goose
Summary: Freddie has a sneaking suspicion that the band's bassist is hiding something from them.





	1. Red stain

The ultimate thing that had Freddie considering John’s secret life outside of Queen was the time the bassist arrived late with a strange red stain on the cuffs of his shirt. None of the others had particularly taken notice of the stain; mainly because Freddie was already curious about Deacy’s peculiar schedule and his secrecy about his outside life. 

Deacy didn’t appear to know that the stain was still there. The stain itself looked slightly faded like there was a past attempt to wash it out of the fabric with no success. Either John forgot about it or didn’t notice that it still remained; the answer didn’t bother Freddie. Freddie was only eager on finding out what the stain exactly was.

When the bassist sat down next to Freddie in the recording room, Freddie couldn’t control the bubbling curiosity that pecked at him like a rotting corpse. He faced John and leaned in closer, lowering his voice slightly so that Roger and Brian (who were talking to each other, anyway) couldn’t hear him. He subconsciously kept a safe distance away from him.

“Dear, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s that red stain on your shirt?” He asked in a hushed whisper, eyeing the stain that he was addressing.

John’s eyes seemed to widen in surprise and perhaps even fright. His eyes darted downward and searched for the stain Freddie had commented on in an unexpected panic. Once he spotted the stain, his demeanour switched immediately. A nervous smile fixed upon his lips and his fear faded away like it was never there beforehand. His arm ducked beside his thigh, hiding the stain with it.

“Oh, that’s just tomato sauce. I couldn’t wash it out of the fabric before I got here,” John explained amidst a small chuckle. His eyes narrowed for a split second before his attention was drawn to Freddie again. The singer cocked a brow. He didn’t believe him for some reason. He thought of the reasons why John would have overreacted to hearing someone ask about a red stain on their clothing. Perhaps he was worried he was bleeding and didn’t notice, or... yeah, Freddie couldn’t think of another valid reason. No one freaks out about tomato sauce like that. Unless they were allergic to it... _Was that even a thing?_ Now Freddie had two things to contemplate.

“Alright, I was only worried you had hurt yourself,” he replied, hiding his suspicions. He leant back in his chair and pursed his lips in thought. He saw John turn away in the corner of his eye.

First things first: yes, Freddie thought John was a murderer. Was that an outlandish impression to have regarding your friend? Definitely! But this was Freddie Mercury: the most outlandish queen to ever walk this Earth. If he thought John Deacon— the shy, quiet bassist that accidentally became a rock star— was less innocent than people thought, then he was either onto something or just being an overdramatic twit. John wasn’t the type you’d think was a murderer. But, miraculously, John had unusual traits that left Freddie scratching his head. No one as innocent as Deacy had police at their door every month in search of a murder suspect. No one as "innocent" as Deacy made horrific dark jokes that sounded more like first-hand experiences than jokes. Actually, on second thought, John wasn’t innocent at all. He had a secret cocktail bar behind his amp, so he would end up drunk during shows and would punch windows and anything that got in his way. But, as they say, the quietest people can be the wildest.

It wasn’t just those few things that made him think this way. Freddie swore every time John _“went out to the pub”_ , another person would end up missing a day later. There was something seriously off about this man and his habits outside of the band.

There was one thing, though, that made Freddie think his theory was ridiculous. Freddie could never imagine John hurting someone. He was too kind to go around stabbing people and dismembering them like bloody butcher meat. The bodies that Freddie thought were John’s victims always tended to be cut up, but of course, that was after they had their eyes pulled out or their face mangled to such a degree that no one could put a name to the corpse. Not every murder was the same. Some were mild, and some were... _upsetting to the stomach_ , to say the least. Once again, Freddie _really_ couldn't imagine the thought of John Deacon, the world’s cutest bassist, performing vivisection on anyone or anything.

His attention was caught by John trying to rub out the dark stain in his blue shirt. He was mumbling under his breath, but Freddie couldn’t make out what he was saying. It looked like he was swearing as if he was angry at himself.

“Are you okay, Deacy?” Freddie tested with a worried tone. His eyes narrowed in concern as he watched Deacy hide his arm beside his thigh again.

“I’m fine, Fred.” When Freddie didn’t look satisfied with his answer, he continued, “I didn’t do anything to myself if that’s what you're wondering. I can show you if you’re really that worried.”

Freddie shook his head, “No, no, I know you didn’t do anything. You just looked angry.”

“Oh, I’m just a little peeved about this stain, it’s nothing serious.”

He paused for a few seconds before he answered. “Alright, darling.” Freddie didn’t know what else to say. He felt as if he should have just believed his friend like any other normal human being would. John didn’t sound like he was lying, but there was something still bugging Freddie right down to the bone.

The two dropped their conversation there. It left Freddie with many unanswered questions, however, they were questions that he couldn’t ask John directly. He couldn’t imagine himself asking _“Deacy, do you kill people?”_ without being killed himself. He would have to answer them for himself (without managing to look like a stalker in the process). As he swallowed, he felt a bulge in his throat. Anxiety had crept into Freddie's throat like an unwelcomed guest and made each breath scratchy and raw. The uncomfortable aura John was giving off was making his skin crawl. He felt piercing eyes boring into the side of his head, but whenever he glanced over at John, his eyes were turned away and more focused on his sheet of music.

Soon enough, Brian and Roger stopped chatting amongst themselves so the instrumental recording could finally initiate. The less time Freddie had to worry about his friend being a murderer, the better. He sighed in relief once he heard Brian's soothing voice penetrate the quietness of the room. His voice was suddenly a blanket that Freddie felt he could wrap himself in and drift off to sleep. 

Having to worry about fellow band members being murderers wasn't a typical occurrence for any other band, surely. So why did Freddie have to deal with this shit?


	2. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh also, after writing half of this chapter, i realised that "deaky" looks much better than "deacy" so sorry for torturing yall with that spelling last chapter sdkjldskjds

Arriving at John’s house without prior notice probably wasn’t the best plan Freddie had ever come up with. If Deaky spotted him, the bassist would probably think he was a stalker. Or worse, Freddie would end up with a knife plunged in his chest. Being stabbed was considerably low on Freddie’s bucket list, so it was in his best interest to steer clear of psychos with knives. Tonight, however, was truly going to be the night where Freddie Mercury gets fucking murdered to death. 

Well, at least that’s how his thought process was rolling. Not a single optimistic idea went through his head: it was just full of death and fear. He was really having second thoughts about the plan. It wasn’t even a well thought out plan, either. All he knew is that he had to turn up at Deaky’s house and… that’s it, really. See? This was a fucking dreadful idea. He just needed to know whether or not John was a murderer so he could call the police, but at the same time, he needed to make sure he didn’t end up on John’s hitlist in the progress.

Leaving Freddie alone with his paranoid thoughts for longer than a minute wasn’t doing him any good. It didn’t take him long to decide to bail, but before he could turn back for home, he was stopped frozen in his tracks. There was a figure in the driveway not too far from where Freddie was standing. It was a man that was particularly _Deaky_ sized. He couldn’t make out his face from the lack of light, but it was obvious who it was.

Freddie had never felt such a dominant sensation of dread in his entire existence. He didn’t scream; he just backed up until his heels hit John’s front door. His heart was racing inside his chest; he could feel it in his throat. He felt sick to his stomach.

The man standing in the driveway spoke. “... Fred?”

Oh, shit. His throat felt like it had collapsed. No words were forming. He croaked out whimpers, but the words were fastened to the tip of his tongue.

“Freddie…” John walked forward-- closer-- and into the flickering and dim amber light that was outside his house. His body now finally in colour, Freddie realised that he much rathered it when John was in the dark.

There was a large stain on the front of Deaky’s shirt. It was unmistakable. Blood… it was blood. All over him, even on his hands and face. There was no fucking way that was tomato sauce, not in a million years. 

“John?!” Was all Freddie could say. Seriously, what else could he say? His friend just arrived at his own house absolutely soaked in gore. His mind was in little, broken pieces and forming sentences was the last thing he was able to manage.

“Calm down, please. Don’t start yelling,” John warned with his typical gentle voice, which Freddie found astounding given he had presumably just killed a man in cold blood. John held his hands out in front of him in a defensive gesture, approaching Freddie slowly with cautious steps.

Freddie didn’t follow his advice, though. “Why are you soaked in blood?!” He yelled in both confusion and paralyzing fear. His voice was loud enough for the nearby neighbours to hear if they were listening in. “JOHN!?”

“Stop yelling, you twit!” John hissed harshly, stomping his foot in front of him in a frustrated manner. The singer had never heard Deaky speak to him that way. It left him gobsmacked but increased his fear by tenfold. This was _not_ his Deaky. John was always so quiet when it came to Freddie. Somehow, that made at least one conscious thought pass through his head. He stopped yelling.

“Why… is there blood--?”

John shushed him. He was close. Way too close. Freddie could just reach out and touch him, and he didn’t like that at all. In a sudden panic, Freddie went to sprint off but was stopped when a hand suddenly wrapped around his arm and pulled him back with one powerful tug. The man yelped as the back of his head was slammed against the wall. A hand covered his mouth and an arm secured him firmly against the wall to keep him there.

Freddie tried calling for help but his words were suppressed by Deaky’s hand. John’s hand smelt of a rich iron stench. Freddie could taste blood. That didn’t stop him from yelling. He continued yelling, screaming-- anything-- so he wouldn’t die. He didn’t want to die, especially not because of _Deaky_ of all people.

“Shut up would you?!” John yelled angrily, pushing his back against the wall even rougher. Freddie didn’t shut up until John pressed the tip of a knife against his neck. The coldness of the blade almost made him faint from shock.

“Do you seriously have no self-preservation whatsoever?! If a man covered in blood wants you to shut up, then LISTEN TO HIM!” John was fuming at the mouth with eyes wide with impatience and frustration. If he was pushed any further, that knife would end up lodged inside Freddie’s windpipe. Even the thought made Freddie’s breath hitch.

Freddie whispered a muffled, “Sorry,” but his posture remained tense. 

John narrowed his eyes. He didn’t say much else. He moved his hand from his friend’s mouth and rustled around in his pockets to find his house keys. With a jingle from the keys, he hastily unlocked the front door and pulled Freddie inside, slamming and locking the door after. The singer was not only perplexed but also suffering from a minor panic attack. 

He was going to die. Freddie could feel how sticky and oily he felt from how horribly he was sweating. His knees were close to buckling and sending him toppling to the floor. He had to keep himself on two feet by leaning on the wall. His head was fucking spinning like a goddamn giant frisbee ride at a theme park. It was unbelievable-- all of this. Having a murderer as a friend was the last thing Freddie really expected to happen in his bizarre life. 

“Okay, Fred. We need to talk.”

Freddie stopped himself from saying a harsh ‘no shit’ in return. “Yeah…” He felt himself stiffen as John approached. The bassist noticed and stopped. 

“Come sit on the couch,” he offered, standing his distance. Freddie was suspicious. _Was he always this nice to his victims before he killed them?_ Ah, fuck it. It was worth being comfortable when he died instead of trembling like an idiot. He wobbled over to the couch (John offered help, but Freddie was NOT trusting those damn red hands on his new outfit) and plonked himself down a little awkwardly. 

John took a seat on the couch opposite to Freddie and rested his hands in his lap. Freddie made sure not to make eye contact with him, which left the two of them awkwardly looking at any other part of the room but each other. 

“So… I guess there's nothing that can change your mind about–” he gestured to himself– _“this.”_ Freddie shook his head. “Right, uhm… well, I'm a serial killer!” He nervously laughed and glanced down at his lap. He had never said those words out loud to anyone before. Especially not to someone he wasn't planning to hurt.

“I know, John. I know you're a fucking serial killer,” Freddie snapped venomously. “Is there anything else I should know?” His head shot up for a second to make eye contact, but his eyes fell to his lap a second later.

“Uhm, I have a mass grave under my house...?” 

He looked back up, shocked. “ _JOHN!_ ”

“What? You asked if there was anything else! I was just providing!”

Freddie shook the horrible mental image out of his head and threw his face into his hands. The fact he was sitting over rotting corpses sickened him. The thought of knowing he was going to end up there was even worse. He blinked back tears and sniffled. No, he was not going to cry in front of John. Not like this.

The two went silent. Deaky knew Freddie was trying not to cry. It made his heart hurt. John wasn't a psychopath. He had feelings, and he definitely didn't want to upset his best friend. Freddie had done nothing but protect and love Deaky with all his heart right from the start, so he wasn't going to be an asshole and ruin that bond they had. 

Freddie suddenly spoke up, his voice shaky and raw, “Darling, please, just tell me why you're doing this.” Holding back his tears didn't work. They were down his cheeks, his eyes were puffy and his throat was hoarse and sore. He didn't lift his face from his hands. 

“I…” John paused. The quiet noises of sorrow that filled the room made his heart throb with guilt. “I don't know. It felt good. I regret everything I've ever done to them, but it just feels too good.”

Freddie sat up and finally made eye contact with his friend. He didn't know whether to be disgusted or angry. Every word that came out of John’s mouth felt like an acid trip gone bad. 

“What are you going to do to me?” Freddie asked quietly. His voice was the rawest John had ever heard it. It was a sound that no one should have to hear.

“Nothing. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Freddie’s face fell in shock. “What?”

“I don't want to hurt you, Fred. You're my friend.”

“Friend? I can hardly call you my friend anymore,” he scoffed in disgust, folding his arms. When he realised that was the wrong thing to say, it was too late to take it back.

“Given that our friendship is the only thing keeping you alive right now, I'm sure it would be in your best interest not to say that.”

Freddie gulped fearfully. A fake but nervous smile spread across his face. “Right, sorry.”

“Anyway, Fred,” John leaned forward, “Are you going to tell anyone about this?” His eyes turned dark-- _more serious than Freddie had ever seen_ \-- and his hands fell flat in his lap. He didn’t break eye contact with the singer.

“I…” His heart dipped down to his nuts in a panic when he saw the change in John’s expression. “No, I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Good. If I find out you’ve told anyone, I’ll have your head on a spit. Understood?” It was like John’s soul had left his body. His eyes held nothing behind them, just empty space and severe intention. It was insane how quickly John’s entire demeanour could change in seconds. He went from cute to… well, _murderous._ There really wasn’t any other title to name it.

“Yes, dear. I--I u-uhnderstand,” Freddie choked. His throat felt raw again from another strong urge to cry. This was all too much for him to handle at once. At least a twenty-minute break between each fucked up thing John said would aid him in processing what he was being told. 

Suddenly, John’s expression returned to its original state. A burst of emotion gushed into his eyes and a small smile painted itself on his kind face. He leaned back into his couch, declaring, “It’s good to know you’re smart enough to listen to me. I’ve always fancied having an intelligent friend around.”

A nervous chuckle left Freddie’s lips. He didn’t _feel_ smart. 

He wanted to dig deeper into John’s history since the man hadn’t ever spoken much about it in the past. It was obvious why he couldn’t talk about it beforehand. Most people would call the police if they found out their friend was a murderer. Maybe that’s why John didn’t want to hurt Freddie. He was the only person he could talk to about things that most people would go to the police about.

Of course, now Freddie was guaranteed death if he tried being a sensible human being.

“Can I ask you something, John?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, cocking his head slightly.

“What happened to your other friends? Did you have any before Queen?”

John chuckled. “Yeah. I had a few.”

“Do you still talk to them?”

This time, John laughed. It sent a literal shiver down Freddie’s spine. He thought that was only bullshit that thriller authors wrote about, but holy shit, he had never heard a laugh so terrifying before.

“Oh, Freddie. I would if I could, but no one can talk to the dead.”

The singer felt his heart drop. John was a maniac. There was no point in asking if John killed them: the answer was already obvious. “...Why did you-- you _kill_ them?”

“They weren’t smart enough,” he said softly, leaning forward. “Remember that, Fred.”

The world seemed to stop. Freddie was now officially close to fainting. His weak, little heart was convulsing inside his fucking chest. He wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing ruptured out of his body.

John was _threatening_ him. Fuck, was why he so good at it? The man looked so innocent, but somehow he was capable of making Freddie feel small and pathetic. He hated it. Actually, hate was too harsh of a word. He disliked it, but at the same time, it activated a carnal passion in the back of his mind. He ignored it.

“No offence, but could I go home, now? This is all too much to handle in such a short span of time,” Freddie asked as polite as he could manage, faking a smile.

The bassist/murderer stood up, replying, “Yeah, sure, mate.” He headed over to the door with Freddie following behind him, unlocking it and gesturing the other man to leave. Freddie mumbled a quiet “thanks” and rushed out without looking back. He could feel John’s eyes on him until he walked onto the path outside. The door closed and Freddie finally had something between him and that crazy fucking man.

Holy shit. He really needed a nap. For like three days. Yeah, that sounded nice.


	3. Dinner

Long story short, Freddie kept his mouth shut. That didn’t stop him from acting strange around John and being incredibly quiet during recording sessions. Freddie was usually the loud, excitable one, but now he was just… There. He felt anxious around John. It was a constant dread that followed him and weighed him down like a tower of bricks. Fear weighed more than happiness. When fear never left, joy wasn’t something that lasted very long.

Brian and Roger noticed his out of character behaviour almost immediately, but whenever they tried to talk to him about it, Freddie said he was fine and told them to stop worrying about him. Of course, that only made them more worried. They decided to stop harassing him about it and give him some time. Whatever was happening would pass soon, right? They were far from right. 

John was bothered by Freddie’s attitude the most. He didn’t like the fact that he was the reason Freddie was so uncomfortable during the sessions that used to make him happy and joyous. He needed Freddie to feel comfortable around him. That would obviously take a lot of work given that John’s profession outside of work was murder, but it was worth a try. Freddie couldn’t spend the rest of his days sulking during recording sessions and avoiding John whenever possible. Even when he sang, he sounded distant from reality. This had to change and soon, too.

So, as any normal human would, he invited Freddie over to his place for dinner. John didn’t know how to get people to like him. He usually just killed them if they were avoiding him. The fact was, he didn’t want to hurt Freddie. Now, he actually had to try and make friends without using murder as an alternative. At first, he was going to try and politely invite Freddie over, but when that didn’t seem to work, he threatened him. _Fuck, John was horrible at making friends._ Even when he wasn’t murdering them, he still ended up being an absolute tosser. 

Other than the fact that Freddie didn’t completely consent to come over for dinner with a murderer, John felt that he had to try and look pleasant. He dressed in his finest suit and made sure his hair wasn’t a complete mess. He stood in front of his mirror for twenty minutes straight, repeating numerous flirts and phrases over and over again. He didn't know why he felt like he had to flirt, he was used to having dinner with females-- nah. That was a lie, John has only gone on one dinner date. They never ended up together.

Let's just say he didn't like her very much.

This time, however, John wouldn't kill his date. He was going to cook the best damn meal he could and if Freddie didn't like it he’d drive a fork into his eye socket-- wait, no. No murder. Anyway, he knew Freddie was too polite to talk smack about John’s cooking. If he didn't like the roast leg, then he guessed he would have to die.

John slapped himself. He really needed to get a hold of himself.

He jumped in his seat when someone started thumping on the door. It was more of a knock, but John wasn't used to visitors. He got up and answered the door. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Fred.

John really wasn't expecting the other man to dress up so much. Freddie had his makeup done, furry coat on, and his hair was even done professionally too. This suddenly felt like a date. John felt his heart start to beat a little faster.

“You look absolutely delicious!” _Was that a weird thing to say?_ John wondered. “Come on in, Fred.”

Freddie thought the comment was weird coming from a murderer (who he was still yet to figure out if he was a cannibal or not) but it was better than actually being cut up and served.

“Thank you, darling. You don't look too shabby yourself,” he complimented in return, waltzing on in like a diva. He still felt uncomfortable around John, but with a few drinks, he was sure the night would let him have some fun. Losing the heavy weight of dread off his shoulders would really improve his declining mentality (and the album, too). 

He took a seat at the dining table, noticing with keen interest how neatly the table was set up. It was like a fancy restaurant-- or someone trying too hard to impress their date. With a nervous glance around the room, Freddie poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip. 

“Do you eat pork?” John suddenly asked, walking up from behind Freddie. He wouldn’t be lying if he said John’s sudden appearance frightened him.

“I’m not opposed to it.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

“Yes, darling. I eat pork,” Freddie chuckled slightly. 

“Oh, that’s a relief. This would have been a disaster if you didn’t like pork,” the bassist admitted with a shaky breath. He realised he should have asked Freddie before he even cooked the meal, but thankfully life was giving him a chance. Life was weird. John was a murderous asshole, but here was life, being nice to him and giving him what he wanted. To be honest, he didn’t really believe in karma anyway. If karma was real, John would have ended up on the other side of his blade a long time ago.

With a departing nod, John left the room for the kitchen. The meal was waiting on the table, pulling John towards it with a mouth-watering aroma. It looked like a professionally cooked meal made by a five-star chef-- kinda. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best John had ever cooked. He hadn’t ever cooked up a meal for someone before, which meant it actually _had_ to look presentable. John usually just got the meat from the basement and cooked it with some random vegetables. It worked for him, so he hardly could care.

He carefully lifted the tray on which the meal was situated on and trekked into the dining room. Freddie was stunned when he saw what John had prepared, his eyes wide and his lips parted only slightly. He hadn’t been expecting anything too fancy; he was honestly expecting some recooked slop. That was harsh, but he didn’t expect much from a serial killer. All his expectations had been set considerably low for the night.

“Roast pork leg? I’m impressed, dear,” Freddie said with a small smile, taking another sip of his red wine. If John hadn’t mentioned it was pork beforehand, he would have thought it was lamb or beef. The longer Freddie studied the meat, the more confused he became. The colour of the meat looked like cooked beef, but the shape was lamb-- but also, not lamb? He presumed it was just a thinner cut of pork leg and pushed the paranoid thoughts away before they got worse.

“I’ve never really had to cook for visitors before,” John admitted. He placed the tray of meat onto the table and took a seat. “It’s probably the fanciest thing I’ve ever cooked. When it's just me, I don’t have to care about the presentation.”

“At least you can cook. I don’t even know how to boil eggs,” Freddie chuckled-- mostly at himself. His inability to boil eggs was shameful. The shock on John’s face was blatantly obvious that he ashamed, too. _Why should Freddie care what a dirty murderer thinks of him?_ “It’s not my fault, my boarding school was cheap.”

With a cocky hum, Freddie cut himself a piece of meat along with what seemed to be beef marrow bone. There was a cup of vinaigrette for the bone, which Freddie poured over the marrow. It wasn’t his first time having this. He was glad John remembered the bone; mixing that with the meat always improved the flavour by tenfold.

John appeared to be watching Freddie intently, but when he glanced up, the bassist was cutting his own serve of pork. The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. There were better times for worrying about him-- for now, Freddie wanted to feast. That’s exactly what he did. The meat was definitely pork, but it had an unique taste to it. Everything about it was so new to Freddie, even though the meat tasted just like pork. However, that only made it taste better. He almost moaned with the initial bite. It was extraordinarily juicy. 

“Where’d you get this meat?” Freddie suddenly asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “It’s definitely pork, but it _feels_ different.”

There was a worried expression on John’s face for a second before he replied. “I got it myself. You know, pigs, farms. It’s organic.”

“Ah, that explains it.” No, it didn’t. Freddie was bothered by his explanation. His paranoid thoughts starting pouring into his head again. Alarms were starting to ring in his head. It couldn’t have just been his paranoia. There was something not right, here. Other than the murderer in the room, of course. He had to dig deeper to find out what the meat really was.

“Wait, do you own a farm or something?”

“Uhm, not exactly.”

He didn’t explain any further. That only worsened Freddie’s worries.

“ _Not exactly?_ What do you mean?”

John went from calm to frustrated in a heartbeat. “Look, just stop asking. It’ll ruin the night for both of us,” he hissed, slamming his fist on the wooden table. His dark eyes bored straight into Freddie’s own and made him feel small. His heart pounded louder and he shrunk down.

“Sorry. I was just curious.” Nervously, he finished his glass of wine quickly. Drinking or eating always kept him occupied so he wasn’t left alone with his anxiety. Relief washed over him once John looked calm again, and even a little apologetic, too.

“Feel free to pour yourself more wine,” he offered, gesturing to the wine bottle on the table. Freddie already felt the wine kicking in, but as he said before, getting drunk could only improve the night. With the way it was going, he’d rather forget all of this shit. Freddie poured himself another glass and immediately started to drink.

John chuckled. “Thirsty?”

“Hardly. I want to get hammered, darling.” He finished his second glass before he started to eat his meal again. He felt John watching him, but this time, John didn’t look away when Freddie peered up at him. Freddie poured himself another wine and nervously began to drink. His hands were slightly shaky, but it was hard to tell whether that was the alcohol or the nerves. Just when he thought John would remain silent, he spoke.

“Do you really want to know where I got the meat?”

Immediately, Freddie felt his heart in his throat. He drank more. “Yes?”

“As I said, it’s organic. Harvested from live pigs,” he paused, pointing down at the floorboards, “There’s one down in the basement, too.”

Freddie wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what John was hinting at. That wasn't pork. He wasn't eating _pig_. It was human. He was eating a fucking human’s leg. Never in his life had he felt such a strong feeling of disgust. He felt like puking almost immediately and had to take a swig of his wine to wash away the lasting taste of _human flesh._

Spitting some of his wine out, he screamed, “What the fuck?!”

The thing that disturbed him the most was how _good_ it tasted. Fuck-- why was human so delicious? That didn't make it any less disgusting. He was far past tipsy; resulting in him pushing the table away clumsily as he stood up in a drunken haze of repulsion and terror. He stumbled over his feet but managed to stay upright. He wasn't drunk, but another drink would seal the deal. Getting drunk with John seemed like a bad idea at the time. Who knew what he could do to Freddie if he was blackout drunk or unconscious? John could cut him up as he slept and then force feed him his own flesh when he woke up. The very thought made him even sicker than he already was.

“I trusted you, John! What the hell is wrong with you, you sick fuck!”

John followed suite and stood up, chuckling lowly, “Well, first off: I'm a serial killer. Why did you ever trust me in the first place?”

“Because you were my friend, asshole! You may kill people, but you’re still my friend.”

John backed off slightly. His friend’s words relaxed his aggravated state, but not completely. “Fred, go have another drink or two. You said you wanted to get hammered, right?”

“What are you playing at?”

“Nothing. Remember, Freddie. Only the smart ones get to live.”

That was enough to get Freddie swigging the entire bottle. Fuck it-- if he was drunk, he didn't have to care about shit. No more worrying, no more paranoia, and of course, it's not like Freddie would be able to tell the difference between a cock or a knife inside him.

His mental state decayed in mere seconds and the bottle was smashed to the ground with a loud crash. Everything started to spin and the walls came alive. No more clear thoughts, only sex, alcohol and drugs were on his mind. He knew he wouldn't find drugs here, but the other two were right on his fingertips. Literally. He had a grip on John’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Woah, woah, easy there,” John warned, pushing Freddie back. A genuine kiss came from a sober man, not a man completely off his face. “Back off, Fred. You’re drunk.”

The drunk man pouted. “Ohh, you’re no fun, darling!” He grabbed John’s hand in a sudden and tight grasp, entwining their fingers. Before John could pull away, the tip of Freddie’s tongue was sliding over his knuckles and his teeth were pressed down over his skin. It felt fucking good for sure, but John-- even being a murderer-- didn’t take advantage of drunk people. It was literally rape! They can’t consent if they can’t even speak properly.

“Stop it!” John pulled his hand away. “Get ahold of yourself.” He only wanted Freddie drunk so he wouldn’t panic about the meat. He didn’t want… _This._ It made him uncomfortable.

“Com’ onnn, Deaky… Can’t I just have a lil’ nibble? Human tastes sooo good…” Freddie was practically moaning by now, his words slurred. A huge grin was plastered on his lips. He looked hungry; like he was craving a piece of meat.

“Freddie, no. It's better if you get some sleep before you do something stupid.” He wanted Freddie asleep so he didn't have to deal with him. He hoped he would drink so much that he’d forget ever eating human flesh. Freddie already looked hammered enough to forget a lifetime and end up puking the next morning for hours. It wasn't the nicest way to get Freddie to forget, but it wasn't like Freddie hadn't got pissed off his face before. John wished he never hinted at the meat being human, but he was absolutely dying to see Freddie’s reaction. At least that was satisfying.

“What's the point of gettin’ pissed if I can't enjoyy it?” Freddie angrily stepped into John’s personal space and, without warning, _bit his fucking neck._ John yelped and jumped back, reaching for the bite mark. The fucker had drawn blood. It hurt like a bitch. John felt fury boiling deep in his chest, but he kept it concealed within him.

“Fuck’s sake, Fred! Don't bite me!” He shouted, wiping away the blood that was slowly seeping out of his neck. It was throbbing with a burning pain that made his teeth grit.

“Butt you look so tasty!”

“Stop it, and get some sleep. If you keep pissing me off, there isn't going to be much stopping me from eating you instead.” John didn't mean that in a kinky way, which Freddie somehow understood over how horribly drunk he was. At least the man had some level of self-preservation.

“Fineee dadd. You're boring,” he whined like a child, pouting sadly. He waddled over to the couch (while almost falling over numerous times) and flopped face first onto it. Within seconds, he was snoring, even though half of his body was sliding off the couch. John quickly lifted the rest of his body onto the couch and sighed. It was like looking after a child. Why were drunk people so useless?

John rubbed at his temples, feeling a headache coming on. With a frustrated groan, he got some painkillers and water. He effortlessly swigged the drugs down and started to clean up. The meat was kept in the fridge for later and the broken wine glass was brushed up and put into the trash. As he did every night, he made sure his pig in the basement had water and that its cage wasn't too dirty. Luckily, he didn't have to do anything for his little pet, which granted him permission to sleep. He ended up passing out on the other couch after an hour of lying there, staring at Freddie and watching as his eyes moved frantically under his eyelids. It was distressing, but the fixation helped him fall asleep.

-0-

When Freddie woke up, he panicked. Other than the fact he felt sick and his head was throbbing and aching, he wasn't in his house. He couldn't remember last night. Was he drugged? Kidnapped? What was going on?! He turned over and fell off the couch like a fucking idiot with a loud thud and pained grunt.

“Oh… Fuck…” He groaned, sitting up. His back was sore as shit, too. Holy mother of shit, everything hurt. He rubbed his head and hissed when sunlight beamed into his sensitive eyes. Through all his issues, he didn't notice John standing in the doorway of the living room. 

“Are you okay, Fred?” The disembodied voice asked, who Freddie found out was John when he actually stopped fussing over his sore muscles and eyes. Though, that only made him freak out more. Why was he in John’s house with no memory of yesterday?

“Did you kidnap me?!”

John blinked. “What? If I had kidnapped you, you'd be in the basement, not on my couch.”

That only made Freddie think of worse things. “Did we shag?!”

“NO-- no, Christ, Fred! You were drunk and tried coming onto me, so I forced you to sleep,” he explained, sighing. “Sorry for threatening you last night, it was the only thing that seemed to work.”

Freddie shook his head. He believed John. He didn't feel like he had been fucked and couldn't remember it. He knew what that felt like, and this certainly wasn't it.

“Ah, whatever. Is it okay if I hog your bathroom for an hour? This hangover is killing me.”

“Yes, I'd rather you spew in there rather than on my floor. Now hurry up before I jinx myself.”

Freddie didn't hesitate. He was in the bathroom within seconds and John could hear him from the living room. He was coughing his damn lungs up, it was quite disgusting. Alas, it was John’s fault anyway, so he decided not to complain. He knew of a drink that aided with hangovers and begun to prepare it for Freddie once he was done puking his guts out.

Hopefully, last night’s forgotten dinner and this morning would bring them a little closer. He didn't do anything to Freddie while he slept, so he hoped that gained him some trust from his friend. If Freddie felt like he had just got drunk and slept, then he shouldn’t be so scared of John. Deaky just wanted to prove to his friend that he had nothing to fear because watching his best friend tremble whenever John stood nearby broke his stone cold heart.


	4. the pig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning! this chapter is more graphic than the others (no murder, just a graphic/detailed description of a wounded person).

Freddie’s hangover lasted the entire day, but with the help of John’s mystery hangover remedy, he didn’t feel like absolute shit for the most of it. He finished his puke show at his own house and spent the rest of the day on the couch watching the television. He called off album recording, knowing that his hangover would mess up his singing. Roger was pissed off about it, but Freddie couldn't have given less than a shit. His ‘angry’ voice sounded like a five-year-old getting upset about sharing a toy. Squeaky fuck…

Back on the subject of hangovers, Freddie was finding it difficult to recollect his memories of last night. It was either a blur or not there at all. It physically pained him to try and remember, so he decided to give up. What was there to remember, anyway? He got drunk, tried coming onto John, and was put to bed like a naughty child. The only thing that worried him was the red mark on John’s neck that he saw as he left his place. It was some weird hickey, but it looked more like a bite mark. He could see the indents of teeth still embedded in his skin. It worried him because he had a feeling _he_ had done that to John and that the bassist was actually lying to him. He wouldn't have been surprised. But he definitely didn't feel like he had had sex, so his thoughts were all very mixed up and confusing. 

In the darker part of his mind, he was totally getting a hard on imagining himself biting John. Even though Deaky was cute and shy, it was obvious he was a top. That just made Freddie’s submissive ass go wild. But… No, John was a murderer, and definitely not a suitable boyfriend. No matter how hot he was when he made Freddie feel small with his domineering voice when he was mad, or his piercing eyes of complete and utter dominance. Oh, what the fuck, Freddie was too fucking gay for this shit.

It truly didn't help that all of this came to mind while he was trying to sleep. Falling asleep with a neglected boner was a difficult task and not only that, it was cruel. Abuse, even. He screwed it all to hell when he realised there was no way he would be able to sleep with a killer boner and decided to shower. It was a much cleaner environment to get rid of an annoying boner and definitely helped with the aftermath. After his shower, Freddie felt clean and satisfied, yet, his mind definitely wasn't clean. Jacking off to the thought of a serial murderer was, well, pretty gross, but who could blame him? 

With a sigh of relief, he plopped down on the couch and continued watching TV. Everything went to shit when he found the cooking channel. They were cooking pork, similar to what John had made last night.

Wait, _what John had made?_ Freddie had no idea he had dinner with John. Was that another memory he lost? At least it was recovered. Alright, so, they had roast pork leg for dinner together. There was red wine, which was presumably what got Freddie absolutely shitfaced. It felt like a date. That would explain why Freddie was also dressed up like a whore when he woke up. Was John trying to impress him with the tuxedo, too?

He was surprised he even consented to go to dinner with a murderer. It's not like he ended up dying, anyway. Maybe John really wasn't that bad? Freddie didn't want to risk his chances. John could easily be lying to him and manipulating him into trusting him. That's just what murderers do. 

Freddie continued watching the cooking channel in case he remembered anything else, and then he remembered. He remembered the final piece to his puzzle.

The pork wasn't pork at all. _Human,_ it was human meat. His puzzle was finally finished, but of course, it came with consequences. Freddie had to go to the kitchen sink again to puke. The mere thought of having human flesh inside him was revolting. He hoped all this puking had got in out of his system or he’d be going straight to hell for committing cannibalism. He needed to speak to John. That man had no right to be serving him human meat. Freddie wondered why he ever trusted him in the first place. 

His loud puking was enough to get Roger to emerge from his room.

"Oi, are you seriously still spewing up your guts? How bad of a hangover do you have?" His tone had a sharp bite to it as if he were angry. What did he have to be mad about? Freddie was the one puking here, not Roger. Maybe his vomiting had distracted him from jacking off to porn mags.

"I just feel like shit, darling. It's nothing special." Freddie's voice was raspy as he clenched tightly to the sink, his mouth open in case his stomach felt like doing another emergency drop. 

"Did someone spike your drink again?"

The thought had passed Freddie's mind, but that wasn't the case. He had drunk an entire bottle of red wine in one, long swig. That was enough to get anyone hammered.

"No, no. It's just a bad hangover, don't worry about it, dear. You can go back to your room now and finish whatever porn magazine you were reading." His attempt to shoo off Roger was obvious, but that didn't bother him. He could be as obvious as he wanted, it still got Roger out of the room every time. 

"Christ, Fred, I was just worried. Sorry for pestering you, I guess," he grumbled, leaving to go back to his room. He slammed the door shut to emphasise his point. Freddie cringed. To be fair, that was a dick move on Freddie's half, but he was in a shitty mood. Roger would get over it. He always did.

Freddie went back to the couch. Talking to John was still on his mind, but maybe he’d do it tomorrow. Freddie had absolutely no energy or motivation to yell at John or even drive to his house. He felt like shit, anyway. His throat burned from excessive vomiting and his head felt heavy; as if a brick was constantly weighing it down. He fell asleep on the couch before 5pm was close to passing.

-0-

The killer hangover had definitely worn off by the next day. Freddie’s energy had returned-- though, not all of it-- but it was enough to get him off the couch and into the car. When he said he was going to talk to John, he meant it. He couldn't trust the man if he was going to serve Freddie human meat without even telling him beforehand. He had lied in his face about it being pork. Sure, it tasted like pork, but it _definitely_ fucking wasn't.

Freddie arrived at John’s place rather quickly after a fury fueled drive, and knocked on the door with much more determination than he had the other night. It took John around thirty seconds to open the door. Obviously, he was doing something, but Freddie didn't feel like caring about little serial killer John’s problems. 

John gingerly opened the door, frightened by how viciously it had been knocked on. “... Yes?” When he noticed it was Fred, his demeanour changed. Though, he was still anxious about his unexpected appearance.

“John, we need to talk about the other night,” he said stern and simple, eyebrows furrowed and a serious frown tugging at his lips.

“Oh, you remembered,” he sighed. John knew there was no point in playing dumb. He knew exactly what Freddie was indicating. Fuck, and here he was hoping the singer would never remember that shit again. What good luck John had!

“Yes, and I would really like to discuss a thing or two if you would invite me inside,” Freddie spat viciously, heaving a shaky breath. For his smaller height, he was actually intimidating. That was saying a lot, considering that John was a murderer. Nothing much scared you when you were a serial killer-- other than getting caught. That was the worst fear of all.

John’s mouth parted but nothing came out. He stood there awkwardly like a deer caught in headlights for a second before he collected his drifting thoughts. “Right! Right, of course. Uhm, come on in,” he offered with a nervous chuckle, moving to the side.

Freddie huffed and walked in, immediately sitting himself down on the closest chair. 

“You know, I can't trust you if you're going to lie to me. You can't feed me _human meat_ and not tell me!” Even saying the words-- _human meat_ \-- made him visibly cringe. It made his stomach churn at the thought. He really hoped all the human meat inside him was gone by now. He really didn't feel up for puking all day again.

“I know, Freddie. I'm sorry, I just…”

“Just _what_ , honey? There's nothing else to it. You shouldn't lie to me if you want me to like you.”

John snarled, “And you shouldn't say shit like that if you want to leave here alive.” He loved how the simplest of words could make Freddie remember how insignificant he was in John’s world. The singer noticeably backed down.

“Yes, but, I'm being serious, darling. Please… please don't lie to me.”

John looked down. “Alright. You're right. In fact, I should be completely honest about the meat,” He looked back up, taking a few steps closer to his friend, “Remember the pig I mentioned?”

Vaguely, Freddie could remember the mention of a pig in the basement. He felt his throat tighten. “Yes?”

“You should meet it. It hasn't seen another face than mine in months.”

The way John called the pig an “it” made his skin crawl. The thought of seeing the human he had ate made him sick, but he had a feeling that saying “no” would only make John mad. If Freddie didn't want to be lied to, then he had to listen to John.

Fuck.

With a shaky voice, he replied. “Do I have to?”

“Oh, don’t be daft!” John’s expression darkened. “We can’t lie to each other, Fred. It’s better you know everything than continue to know nothing.”

Freddie gulped. There was no getting out of this one. The fucker had boxed him in. “Alright, I guess there's no harm in that.” _There was a lot of harm in that, actually._ Freddie was going to have nightmares for weeks.

“Follow me, then.” John trekked to the basement door down the hallway with Freddie following behind. He opened the door and switched the dim light on, lighting up the dusty stairway. Knowing that the pig was constantly shrouded in darkness was another kick straight to the gut.

They walked down the stairs to another door. It was different from any other door in the house. It was large, steel and bolted like a prison cell. Freddie swore there were withered bloody handprints on its surface, and he wouldn't be surprised if he was right. He shivered uncomfortably. So many people had died here. Or, so many dead bodies had been brought here. Both were just as horrible as the other.

“It's just behind this door,” John informed with a smirk that Freddie simply couldn't read. John unlocked the bolts and pushed open the heavy door. It cried out a loud metallic screech as it scraped across the concrete floor. John switched on yet another light. The musty and pitch black room was brought into illumination by an overhead blueish industrial light that was swarming with thousands of small black bugs. It looked the light itself was _moving_. The noises of their buzzing wings blew right into Freddie’s ears and he immediately felt like running out and never returning. He thought he could hear rats, too. Suddenly, the intense stench of shit, piss and dirt wafted into his nostrils and he gagged as tears welled in his eyes. He could hardly keep his lunch down.

Though, none of that was as bad as the thing they came in here for.

Freddie swore his legs had developed a mind of their own when he realised he couldn't move from his position in the doorway. His hands were tightly fused together in a sweaty grip, so much that he could feel his own frenzied heartbeat in his fucking fingers. His eyes were paralyzed; locked onto the small cage that was situated in the centre of the room. 

It was the pig. No, it wasn't a pig. It was a human man. A fat, white guy that looked pale from blood loss. Though, most of his pale skin was grimy with a coat of dirt, live bugs and feces. He was cramped into the cage that was more suited for a pet dog than an overweight man. The only way he could fit in there was the fact that both his legs were missing, leaving just dirty bandaging around the stubs that his legs once were. In multiple places, his skin was missing and patched with bandaging. He looked like a patchwork zombie. He had huge chunks of flesh missing, and whatever wasn't covered by bandaging was being feasted on by maggots, or flies, or rats, or whatever fucking disgusting creature decided that it wanted a meal.

Yeah, Freddie definitely needed to puke. He started to hyperventilate to stop himself from vomiting all over the floor. John noticed Freddie’s discomfort, but he knew he couldn't help. This was his doing, after all.

“Meet the pig. Don't feel too bad for him, he was a serial rapist and a sexist, racist and homophobic wanker before I brought him in. All my pigs are.”

That somehow made Freddie feel slightly better, but the sight alone was still absolutely appalling. How did John put up with this without going mad?! Oh, wait. He already was mad. Freddie almost laughed at his own joke but restrained himself.

“You fed me meat from that disgusting shit covered _lump?_ ”

“I clean my meat thoroughly, Fred. It takes days to make sure it’s edible.”

 _Was that supposed to comfort him?_ He decided to change the subject before John said even worse things. 

“Do you even know the pig’s name?”

“I do, but it doesn’t.”

Freddie furrowed his brows. “He doesn’t know his name?”

“It takes a while, but eventually all my pigs accept that they’re pigs and nothing more,” he spoke as if there was nothing wrong with it all. “Watch, I’ll show you.” He approached the grimy pig and kneeled down next to the cage. The pig noticeably flinched away, hiding his face behind his arm. 

“Hey, piggy. I brought a friend with me, why don’t you say hello to them?” John glanced over at Freddie and gestured him closer. The singer warily walked closer but stood his distance. The stench was too foul.

The pig didn’t say hello in the way Freddie was expecting. It snorted at him. It snorted like an actual pig.

Freddie’s mouth hung open silently for a moment. “It… snorts?”

“It snorts. There isn’t much to feel bad about when you're chopping up a pig instead of a human,” John stated, standing back up. “Let’s head back upstairs. I know this pig isn’t quite a sight for sore eyes.”

“Yeah, you got that right.” Freddie made one last sound of disgust before heading for the stairs. The faster he was out of here, the better. He practically sprinted up the stairs, enjoying the fresh smell of air once he was up. He felt like he was constricted down there; it was horrible. He felt even worse for that pig. Even if the guy was an asshole, his fate was terrible for anyone to endure.

John appeared at the top of the stairs and closed the basement door, breathing a relieved sigh as he brushed the dust off his shirt. Freddie realised he too had dust on his shirt and quickly brushed it off.

“There, now you know what you ate,” he sent a smile up at Freddie. “Are you satisfied?”

“Definitely not satisfied in terms of still having my sanity in one piece, but at least you’re trying to be more honest, darling.” Freddie’s voice was slightly shaky. He was still distraught from seeing that _thing_ downstairs. For once, the sound of bleaching his eyes out sounded pleasant.

John gave him a pat on the shoulder, then directing him to the door. “Well, you know what they say…” John led Freddie outside. “You are what you eat.” He closed the door and Freddie was left alone, once again, with John’s eerie words rattling around in his skull. That man never gave up, did he?

Hopping back in the car, Freddie drove to a bar to get hammered again. Fuck recording, he didn't even want to be in a room with John. If Roger wanted to fight him about it, he had his permission. It's not like Roger could possibly succeed. He wasn't the one with years of boxing training, afterall.


	5. A Concerned Friend

The night at the club was the worst Freddie had had in years. After seeing the pig in John’s basement, his mind was an absolute mess. All he could see was that _thing_ and how disgusting it was. The smell, surprisingly, is what stuck with him the most. It was a sickening rancid stench that threatened to make his guts spill. Even the memory (yes, the memory of a _smell_ ) was close to making him throw up his lunch. The alcohol didn’t help, either. Freddie hadn’t drunk this much in ages; even more than he had at John’s place the other night. His entire world was spinning out of control and he would have fallen unconscious in a puddle of his own sick if it wasn’t for Roger arriving at the scene.

Freddie had called Roger to pick him up before he had got absolutely wasted, claiming that they had to cancel recording again. Unfortunately, Roger was too late and Freddie was already shitfaced by the time he arrived. The drummer drove the singer back to their shared home, forcing Freddie to get into bed and telling him to “stay” like he was some sort of dog.

The morning after, Freddie awoke to Roger shaking him awake quite urgently. He could hear the drummer’s worried but frustrated voice behind his closed eyes, but he was only calling Freddie’s name.

“Wwhattt…” Freddie groggily moaned, sitting up on his bed. His body was aching painfully, but his stomach got the brunt of it. Fuck, he needed to puke. Roger had better hurry up if he didn't want his clothes drenched in vomit.

Roger folded his arms, standing back. His face was scrunched up in anger; even his baby blue eyes were menacing. Freddie cringed at the sight. He felt too crappy to deal with being lectured.

“Seriously, Freddie, what the hell is up with you?” He demanded to know, his squeaky voice was loud and brimming with confusion and fury.

The singer groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. He needed to go to the bathroom to empty his stomach. 

“Nothing’s up with me, darling. What's up with you?”

Roger wasn’t satisfied with his answer. His little joke wasn't appreciated either. “You've cancelled our recording sessions two times, both times after you've left to go out. Where are you going?”

Ah, shit. Better off lying than telling the truth, right? John had made that very clear. “The club, of course. Where else?”

Roger growled under his breath. That made sense to why he was getting drunk, but why was he doing it now all of a sudden? It was too abrupt; he was worried about his friend. He had every right to be concerned about Freddie.

“Are you going to continue cancelling recording sessions?”

“I wouldn't ever dream of it, darling.”

Roger’s stern glare narrowed. “ _Promise?_ ”

Freddie wasn't entirely sure he could keep that a promise with John in the picture. “Yes, promise." He lied, besides his moral judgment telling him otherwise.

“Good. Be hasty, we have a recording session to get to. I’m not letting you delay this album any further,” Roger was talking with his authoritative voice again. He left Freddie no time to reply before he left the room, presumably to get ready to record.

 _Motherfucker._ Freddie thought to himself, grunting as he hopped out of bed. He practically ran to the bathroom to empty his stomach. He needed to get at least a little bit sober before he could record. The last thing he wanted to do was record songs, but he wasn’t in shape to fight with Roger. The drummer could probably knock him out if he wanted. Freddie was too hungover to fight back.

-0-

The recording session was just as it had been last time. Well, it was slightly better. Freddie– even though he felt like dying– was more vocal. But there was still something wrong. Sometimes he would suddenly stop talking, or his voice would go quiet, or he’d just completely cower away like he had seen a ghost. 

Roger needed to find out what was wrong with Freddie. He mentioned it to Brian as well, so he had another set of eyes to look out for Fred. Roger would have told John, but… For some odd reason, John seemed to be the reason Freddie was like this in the first place. It worried him. Had something happened between them? John didn’t seem anxious around Freddie, so maybe John had done something. That perplexed Roger, given that he thought John didn’t seem the type to upset his friends.

John attempted to move closer to Freddie, but whenever he did, the singer would move away again. Usually, he used an excuse such as chatting to Roger or Brian as if to mask up the fact he was avoiding John, but the two others knew what he was doing. They didn’t make it obvious that they knew what was happening, but eventually, they would have to ask. This couldn’t go on forever. It completely messed up their recording sessions. 

One more wrong note sung by Freddie and Roger would have to slap the twit. They all knew what they were playing, but Freddie apparently kept forgetting every line he had written.

Roger would ask, “Freddie, what’s wrong?”

Freddie would snap back, “It’s the hangover, dear. Maybe if you didn’t force me to come here, we wouldn’t be so fucking shit.”

Roger decided to stop asking after that. He had a valid reason, so Roger shook it off.

-0-

Shaking it off did not stop the questions from nagging at Roger. After the session, he kept John behind to talk to him. The others left, especially Freddie. When he saw Roger pull the bassist back into the recording room, he had ran for it.

“John, what the fuck is going on?” Roger questioned with a hushed tone. Even though he sounded like he was on the verge of whispering, his voice was fierce. He'd probably end up screaming if he tried talking normally. 

John rolled his shoulder rigidly. Roger was gripping it much too tight for his liking. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Why is Freddie acting so weird?”

John’s face darkened, catching the attention of Roger. “Why do you think I should know?”

“Because everytime the damn guy looks at you he looks as if he’s shit himself!"

The bassist shifted uncomfortably under Roger’s grasp. He really wished the blond would release him before John’s anger got to the better of him. He was really starting to feel an urge to punch Roger directly in the jaw.

“Look, Rog, I don’t know why he’s acting like that. Can I please leave? I have things to do,” John’s voice had subdued to a quiet but venomous hiss.

“Stop avoiding the question! Is something going on between you two?!”

With a feral snarl, John lifted his knee and slammed it right into his groin. The drummer cursed loudly and let go of John so he could instead hold his throbbing nutsack. He almost tripped over his own feet as he stumbled backwards, sharply returning his glare on John.

“Let it go, Roger. Nothing is happening between us. Stop sticking your nose into our business,” John snapped (a little too calmy), tucking his hands into his pockets. He quickly walked out before his impulsive desires could take over his actions. It would be unsafe to have another member of the band know about his real identity. 

The drummer didn’t attempt to chase after him. Instead, he stayed back as he yelled in frustration and began to punch and kick the walls. It hurt, but he was too enraged to care. He needed to know what the fuck was going on and why the hell John was actually more aggressive than Roger originally believed he was.

After about ten minutes of angrily pacing the room, Roger left to go home.

-0-

Of course, Roger had to ask Freddie about it. If Roger didn’t get an answer soon he would probably explode. The singer was hogging the couch, as usual, his legs spread across the object so that Roger couldn’t sit his ass anywhere. He didn’t wanna watch the tele anyway, it was full of shit.

“Fred, can I ask you something?”

The singer sighed, turning his head to look at his bandmate. “This better not be about my drinking habits again.”

“No, I wanna ask about John.” He noticed his friend visibly slink away at the mention of the bassist’s name. Ha, so Roger was right about something. “What’s on with you two?”

“Why do you care?”

“Of course I'm going to care! You’re my friends, and if you two keep avoiding each other, the album is gonna be delayed by a fucking year at this rate!” Roger exclaimed, stepping forward. He slammed his hands firmly over the head of the couch, leaning over to glare down at Freddie.

"Well, I'm sorry that our problems are getting in the way of the album," Freddie responded bitterly. "This is none of your business."

Roger rolled his eyes, growing more frustrated by the second. "That's exactly what John said!"

Freddie's eyes went wide in panic. "Wait, you didn't confront John about this, right?" 

"Is that a problem?" 

"Yes, it is a problem!" Freddie exploded, sitting up abruptly. The drummer jumped back at his friend's sudden reaction. "You can be such a pillock sometimes! Did John say anything else?"

"No, he kept avoiding the question. He looked like he wanted to murder my ass, but I wasn't going to let that muppet scare me off."

The singer groaned irritably. _He looked like he wanted to kill you for a reason, Roger._ The blond needed to study how to read body language better. Though, Freddie still wished he never picked up on John's secret side. Maybe Roger was lucky.

"Look, Rog, please listen to me. Don't worry about us. There _is_ something happening, but we can deal with it on our own." Freddie tried explaining it in a way that was clear for Roger to understand. He knew his friend wasn't stupid. He just didn't deserve to be dragged into this mess, too.

"Fine," he finally replied after a long moment of consideration. "I'll stop pestering you. Could you at least let me sit on the couch?"

Freddie smiled. "Right, sorry." He moved aside, feeling himself bounce as Roger landed beside him after he leapt over the couch. The drummer grinned at his friend before looking back at the television. Nothing interesting was on, but it was worth the time he could spend with Fred. Maybe it was better if he stopped worrying about Freddie and John. He didn't enjoy fighting with Freddie. It was much nicer watching television with his friend rather than screaming at him.


	6. The Problem

The more Freddie thought about it, the more he started to believe it. Roger was right. Freddie really needed to stop avoiding John. It was delaying the album and messing up the recording sessions. He didn’t even know why he was avoiding John in the first place. Well, other than the obvious reasons such as John being a serial killer (and possible sociopath), there was really no proper reason for Freddie to suddenly become a scared little child whenever he saw Deaky. It’s not like John would murder Freddie in the middle of a recording session if he sang a note wrong.

Oh, now Freddie understood what was wrong. It was even worse than he could ever have imagined. The very thought of it was repulsing. Out of all the things that could've been a perfectly valid reason, why was this the one that Freddie had chosen?

See, Freddie wasn’t scared of John during the recording sessions. No, actually, he was _scared_ of embarrassing himself in front of the murderer that could probably ruin his entire life with even a single, mocking glance. Fuck, how pathetic was Freddie? He didn’t want a serial killer laughing at his mistakes because he thought-- he thought John was _cool._ Murdering people isn’t cool! It’s a shitty crime that ruins lives. Yet, here Freddie is, hoping to God that ‘Mister Mean Serial Killer Man’ won’t laugh at him for hitting a note wrong.

Freddie had to fix this. He had to prove to himself that John’s opinion didn’t matter. Because it sure fucking didn’t. No serial killer deserved his opinions to be listened to, even if they had good song ideas and bass lines that could literally drop panties. Fuck it, Freddie needed to have a private session with Deaky. That seemed like a good idea. Without Roger and Brian, they could freely chat about murder. Well, Freddie would rather not chat about that, but at least it could bring out the real John. 

The singer called up his murderous friend (that was a lie, he still wouldn’t call John a friend yet) and asked if the two of them could have a private recording session. John happily obliged, stating that the two could “get to know each other a little more”.

 _Sure, thanks Jen. That wasn’t eerie or anything._ Sarcasm intended.

-0-

Freddie was definitely anxious about his private encounter with John. The mere thought of the man always had his jimmies rustled. There was always a chance of Freddie ending up on the sharp side of his knife, and that terrified him. He didn’t want John poking a knife at his exposed organs as he slowly bled out on a table. God knows how many other innocent people had suffered through that heinous torture.

When John finally arrived, well, it was safe to say that anxiety got worse. That was expected. John’s young and gleeful face popped out of the car, showing not a single sign of evil in those wrinkles that defined his cute smile. Freddie hated how adorable a filthy murderer could look.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” John exclaimed once he approached the singer. “Calm down, mate. We haven’t even started to record yet.”

Freddie grumbled, “Shut up, I was overthinking something. I’m not scared of you.”

“I never said you were.”

Freddie shook his head. The motherfucker was getting inside his head, now. “Right, whatever. Let's just get this done.” He headed inside with John following behind him, making sure to keep a good look over his shoulder. For some reason, he felt unsafe. He was alone with a murderer after all. If he wasn’t careful enough, he could wake up in a musty basement with his limbs chained up.

There was another thing about John that made Freddie sickeningly uncomfortable whenever he was around. Freddie’s mind started to create detailed and horrific methods of torture that Johnny boy could inflict on him. Any normal person would shrug them off, but when it was because of an actual killer, those thoughts were there to stay. Once Freddie imagined having his eyes popped by a needle and he almost threw up. He certainly intended to stay on John’s good side.

John grabbed his bass guitar and took a seat on the sofa. His eyes were trained on Freddie and never left him for a second. The singer felt small under his gaze, so he made sure to look away. He was here to show himself that there was nothing to be afraid of. If John began to frighten him, then there was no point to the session.

“The final recording of Liar needs some more work,” Freddie started, keeping his back turned to the bassist. “I suppose we should record some bass and add some cleaner vocals.”

John nodded. “Sounds good.” He stood up, and only then did his eyes divert from Fred. He sauntered into the recording room and straightened himself. The fucker smiled when he looked back at Freddie, knowing full well the singer was uncomfortable.

Freddie ignored it the best he could. “Alright, from the beginning.”

The second John started playing, Freddie’s mind wandered. His eyes lingered on John’s speedy fingers as he plucked the thick strings of his bass guitar. It was better than making eye contact with him. Though, his fingers only brought sinful thoughts to his mind. Thoughts of blood and the many other places those fingers may have been. He wondered if the fleshy tendons of a heart could be played like a guitar. He was sure John would know.

“Freddie?” His name brought him out of his trance. He mistakenly made eye contact with John and felt his heart skip a beat. Their eyes were locked, no matter how deeply Freddie wanted to look away. _Just keep on looking for a few more seconds… Don’t act weird._

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you okay?”

 _No--_ “I’m fine, Deaky darling. Just keep on playing. I don’t intend to be here all day.”

John shrugged and continued playing. Freddie looked away. Soon he would have to sing. 

That time came quicker than Freddie was expecting. His heart was racing, his eyes were like ping pong balls inside his skull, his palms were sweaty, knees weak-- John Deacon was staring. Why couldn’t he just look at something else? There must have been prettier things in the room than Freddie.

He swallowed audibly as he stood in front of the microphone. John egged him on eagerly as if he wasn’t the sole reason as to why Freddie was panicking. _Deep breaths, Freddie. Deep goddamn breaths._

He sang. He sang his heart out like he hadn’t done in days, practically pouring his entire soul and a week’s buildup of emotion and energy right into the microphone like his damn life depended on it. Maybe it did. A lot of things depended on this private session, one of those being the quality of the album and their future as a band. After this, he wouldn’t have to worry. _Please, let this stop him from worrying._

John watched from the other side of the glass, smiling. There was no mockery in his expression; nothing that could tear Freddie apart from the inside and leave him as just a pile of shame. John seemed genuinely impressed with what Freddie had to offer. 

“That was perfect, Fred! I don’t think I’ve ever heard such passion in your voice before. Where have you been hiding that all this time?”

“I don’t know, I guess it’s just been too scared to come out,” Freddie let himself chuckle, finally feeling at ease. John’s stare was still eerie, but it wasn’t taunting him anymore. 

John walked into the recording room, greeting the singer with a pat on the back. Freddie flinched. “The others are going to have a field day with this. I think we’re good for today,” John explained, walking Freddie forward. 

“Well, I’m glad we could play together.” Freddie meant it, even though he was having a panic attack beforehand. 

John nodded in agreement. “Hey, do you think you’d like to have dinner together tonight?”

The singer felt like a PTSD patient reliving one of their worst traumas. His body froze, but he covered it up with a shaky laugh. “Are you going to serve me human meat again?”

John shook his head, blushing slightly. “No! I just… I want to take you out for dinner. Somewhere... fancy.”

 _Was this flirting?_ Freddie didn’t know whether to be disgusted or flattered. “As long as you aren’t going to take me to a cannibal restaurant, I humbly accept your offer.”

John nudged him happily, but he earned no such friendliness in return. “You’re a legend, Fred.”

Freddie scoffed with a smirk. “I know I am, darling.” 

This outing surely couldn't be too bad. If it was a restaurant, it definitely wouldn't have human on the menu. And if it was a date, then Freddie didn't have to worry about paying. Wait-- was he going out on a date with a serial killer? What the fuck was his life even leading up to anymore?

The two settled with 6:30 pm and John picking Freddie up so he could keep the restaurant secret. Of course, that was horrifying, but he was giving John a chance to earn his trust. If Freddie didn't end up in an underground cannibal ring, then he would trust John somewhat a little more. This wasn't some normal thing people went through. This wasn't something Freddie could ask around for advice. No, he had to figure out all this shit for himself. What useless friends he had, not knowing how to deal with serial killers…

Freddie really needed to lie down.


	7. date

Fortunately for Freddie, John hadn’t taken him to an underground cannibal ring. However, he hadn’t taken him to a fancy restaurant either. As they drove to the destination, Freddie noticed how horribly familiar the streets were. He had driven this way many times before, and where to?

The gay bar. That’s right. John was taking Freddie to a gay bar. At first, the singer tried to convince himself that the streets were just familiar, but that tactic sure didn’t last when John parked in the same place that Freddie usually did. He could already see the twinks and bears standing outside of the club nearby, shrouded in neon pink lights and wisps of cigarette smoke. One of them made eye contact with Freddie as he hopped out, almost as if they _knew_ him from before. Honestly, they probably did.

“A gay club? Is this your idea of a fancy restaurant?”

John laughed, nudging him. “Definitely not, I just needed a lie so I could get you here in the first place. It’ll be fun!”

Freddie frowned. Sure, it’d be fun, but he was expecting a fancy restaurant. He wouldn’t have to pay for his food (or Freddie would instead be the one murdering John--) and he wouldn’t have to worry about some big guy trying to get in his pants. Most of the time, Freddie would not mind that, but not when he thought he was out on a date. _This is not an actual date, Fred. You would never date a serial killer._

“Seriously, you have to stop zoning out on me.” John’s voice brought Freddie out of his mind palace. The singer looked away, forcing himself forward so they could get to the club quicker. The sooner they were in there, the sooner they were out. Freddie loved bars and gays, sure, but not with John of all men.

John said something in reply to Freddie’s quickened pace, but Freddie ignored it.

The men outside the bar gave the pair a distinct look as they walked inside. Freddie knew exactly what the look meant, but this time around he didn’t return the look. The second they entered, an almost deafening blast of dance music blew them off their feet. The club flashed a multitude of brilliant neon colours which seemed to give people a stop-motion movement to them. The only place without the dizzyingly flashy lights was the bar. Freddie assumed it was like that so the patrons could see what they were drinking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed John smiling at him. Freddie kept his eyes trained on the bar as he walked towards a red stool. He took a seat and turned away from his ‘date’ as the other sat down next to him.

“You got any friends here, Fred?” John suddenly asked, probably to break the awkward silence.

“They’re not my friends, they’re just shag buddies.” Luckily, the bartender approached so Freddie could have a valid reason to ignore John for a little longer. He ordered himself a beer; John intervening to buy himself one as well.

“I’ve seen you come here a lot,” John admitted as he searched his date with gentle eyes. He noticed Freddie was actively ignoring him, but even John knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up that charade for long. He gave the bartender a friendly-- albeit faked-- smile when he handed the murderer his drink. Freddie collected his own drink with a quiet, “Thanks, dear.”

“So, you’re a stalker?” Freddie finally answered, side-eying John. He took a swig of his drink as he looked away again, resting his arms on the bar top. 

“No! No, I just… see you around sometimes,” John’s voice had raised an octave higher as his cheeks flushed pink, obviously from embarrassment. For a sociopath, he was a shit awful liar. John took a swig of his own drink and kept his eyes watching over his bandmate. Sometimes he felt like just reaching out and touching the singer, but he knew that would backfire drastically.

“Whatever you say, stalker boy,” Freddie chuckled. Why was John stalking him in the first place? Was he making sure Freddie wasn’t outing his little secret? The last thing Freddie wanted was to have a serial killer tagging his ass until he was dead. The singer’s eyes fell to the table as he felt a pit of anxiety begin to form. He knew this ‘date’ would be a bad idea. John always made him anxious.

The two fell into silence. There wasn’t much to be said, anyway. It’s not like they had anything in common: other than a band. Their band wasn’t getting anywhere yet. That was expected, given that it had only been a year. No bands got big in a year, but all the famous bands started somewhere. Freddie just hoped their band would get somewhere bigger one day.

“Do you wanna dance?” John quizzed out of the blue, breaking the silence. During their silence, the bassist had finished two drinks. He was slightly buzzed, but he still sounded sober.

“Maybe when I’m shitfaced, honey. The dance floor is for drunken fags ready for a shag.”

The younger man shifted in his seat, inching closer to Freddie. He had a look on his face like he was daring himself to say something he could regret. “...Who’d you think you’ll be shagging tonight, ay?”

Freddie had to laugh. “Oh, keep it in your pants, John dear. I’m not sucking a murderer’s cock.”

John’s face went tomato red in a mere second. It was a hilarious sight and definitely worth the horrible mental image that aroused in Freddie’s head. It wasn't his fault for thinking those things, it was just his brain being a pervert.

“That’s not what I meant--”

“Darling, please. Spare me the hogwash.” Freddie finished his second drink, quickly ordering another. He noticed John’s defeated expression in the corner of his vision and smiled to himself. _Good, he should feel that way._ No murderer should invite normal, sane people on dates and then take them to a club made just for one night stands. It was almost as if John was trying to tell him something, but Freddie wasn’t having any of it.

It wasn’t long until John had finished four drinks and was onto his fifth. He was far passed buzzed by now; his voice slurred and his flirts starting to get on Freddie’s nerves. The singer had only had three drinks, as he felt unsafe to get too drunk around John in a public place. This place was known for _date rapes_ , and Freddie knew not to trust John at all costs.

“Come onn, Freddie bear. Don’tchu wanna dance yet?” He was too close, too close for Freddie’s likings. He pushed the drunken man off him to try and set boundaries. Fortunately, John understood what Freddie was trying to tell him and frowned disappointedly.

“Finee… We can stay here, I guess,” he sighed sadly, resting his chin in his hands. He eyed the bartender for a moment before returning his eyes to Freddie once again. 

He started up again, “Hey, since you don’t wanna dance, can I at least hold your hand?”

 _Was that some kind of fucking flirt?_ “What?” 

“It’s a date, so… I don’t know why I can’t just hold your hand--” Before Freddie could protest, the younger man’s hand was on top of his. When it began to squeeze, Freddie abruptly stood up and pushed himself away from John with a loud scoff of disgust.

“Don’t fucking touch me, wanker!” He screamed in outrage, rubbing his hand on his shirt to get rid of the diseased touch he had left on his skin. “This isn’t an actual date. I don’t like you,” he hissed, teeth bared. Out of habit, his hand lifted to cover his exposed teeth. 

John looked absolutely dumbfounded. His eyes wide and hands behind his back as to show he wouldn’t touch him again, he apologised. “Sorry! I’m just drunk, Fred. I didn’t mean it!”

Freddie realised the attention he had brought upon himself and John. The patrons surrounding them were staring at them, almost as if they were expecting a fight. Some just looked away; used to arguments inside the bar between two drunks. Freddie didn’t want attention on him, so without replying, he stormed outside in a fit of fury.

There were attempts made by John to call the singer back inside, but he didn’t appear to be listening.

“Fuck-- Goddammit, I’m an idiot,” he cursed himself and struck himself in the side of the head. The man sitting next to him chuckled.

John’s head sharply turned towards the man, glaring at him with a scowl cold enough to chill the blood. “What the fuck are you laughing at, pillow biter?” 

The man stopped laughing and looked away.

“Fucking hell,” John groaned bitterly, quickly standing. He left the bartender the money for their drinks and rushed outside to go find his date-- wait, it wasn't a date, was it? The words Freddie said had upset him, but the man had every right to not accept John’s touch. John just wished he had accepted it in the first place.

When he made it outside, he didn't see Freddie anywhere. John found that weird considering the other man couldn't have got very far in such a short span of time. He looked over at their car but still saw no Freddie in sight. With a frustrated growl, he began to search the premise. He had to be around somewhere, right? Whether or not Freddie was running, he still had to be nearby.

It took him a bit, but he eventually heard some odd voices close by. They were coming from a dark alleyway just behind a corner. John wouldn't have paid attention at first if it wasn't for the words he heard coming from around the corner. 

“Filthy faggot.” That was all John heard before the sound of a punch being landed and a pained gasp. “All you fags deserve to burn in Hell.”

Another punch and a kick followed. The man receiving the beating was crying out in pain, begging him to stop. That's when John realised the voice was familiar. Holy shit. 

That was Freddie.

John raced around the corner and his heart sank when he saw the scene. Freddie was on the ground, arms covering his face as he sobbed freely. Blood was spewing out of his nose which was presumably broken, and a red gash had been struck across his cheek. His tears mixed with the blood as they ran down his cheeks, staining his beautiful shirt as they dropped from his face.

“Stop crying and take it like a real man!”

That was all John had to hear before he charged at the man. The prick hadn't noticed him in time and was pushed to the ground with a groan, immediately cursing ‘the fag’ for his fall. 

“You motherfucker,” John hissed, holding the edge of the knife against the man’s throat. John grabbed his collar and pulled him onto his feet, pushing him against the wall with the knife still firmly around his throat.

“What, are you a friend of the fag’s? Or are you one, too?” The man chuckled venomously, baring his teeth with severe intention.

“That’s none of your business, prick.” John pulled out his leather gloves and slipped them on while managing to keep the knife against the man’s neck. His Adam's apple bopped around the blade and made him make a little whine of discomfort. That made John’s heart swell. He loved the sound of pain.

Freddie was too horrified to look away, or even run away, either. Besides, the thought of running off alone again scared him after what he had encountered tonight. He just wanted some peace and quiet, but the drunken homophobe had taken that away from him.

“From now on to your death, you are a pig.” John didn’t give the pig any time to object before he threw his raging fists at the pig’s face. Each time a fist collided with the side of his face, another deep gash would tear open and send a spray of blood over John’s knuckles. He broke his nose with a single blow, resulting in a bloodbath that soaked half of the pig’s revolting face.

He kicked the pig in the groin and punched him straight in the stomach with a powerful blow, watching as the man doubled over in pain and fell to the floor. While he was crying out like a bitch baby, John looked over at Freddie.

“Fred, go back to the car. You shouldn’t have to see this.” When Freddie shook his head, John was confused. The singer looked paralyzed in fear with wide eyes and face stained with clotting blood. “Do you want to stay here?” Freddie nodded silently in reply.

“Alright, I’ll make this quick so you can go home.” It would hurt his pride to kill the bastard so quickly, but he cared about Freddie’s wellbeing more. John kneeled down next to the pig with his knife in hand, lifting it to make sure the man saw it. Then he drove it down into his mouth, impaling his tongue with a single, swift thrust. The man screamed in agony and writhed to escape, but John straddled his hips to stop him from escaping. 

Again and again, John drove the knife deep inside his oral cavity. There was a feeling of joy bubbling deep within his chest, bringing a happy grin to his blood coated face as he mutilated the man beneath him. A few of the pig’s teeth had been knocked from their places by the blade, some of them hanging from his gums by strings of flesh and nerves. Blood was pooling at the back of his throat, which would surely drown him soon. 

“Just to make this quick, I won’t fucking gut you like a pig,” John whispered near his ear, holding a hand over his mouth to stop him from coughing up blood. He watched as the man hacked and thrashed under him, eyes wide in a mixture of suffering and terror. He was slowly drowning in his own blood. John had seen it all before. Usually, they ended up vomiting before they died. It was disgusting, but John’s job was just that. He couldn’t complain about murder being gross sometimes.

Just to prove John’s prediction, the pig puked and his eyes rolled back into his skull with a few final convulsions as the life slowly slipped from his mangled body. With a sound of disgust, John wiped his blood and sick covered hand on the pig’s jacket. He stood up and put his knife away, turning his attention to Freddie.

Freddie was staring at the ground, knees up to his chest and arms around his legs. He was rocking back and forth, whispering silently to himself. John walked closer and crouched down in front of him. This time he kept his hands off of him.

“Let's take you home.”

Freddie looked up at the blood-soaked Deaky and nodded. He stood up shakily and kept himself close to John, treating him as a torch through the darkness. For someone who had gone through a fit of rage from being touched, he was being awfully touchy now. He was pressed against John’s side, holding him close to stop him from running off. 

They walked to the car, ignoring the many glances and glares they were getting from people around them. Freddie was silent. He was locked inside his own head, reliving his attack over and over again. For some reason, he couldn’t help but smile at his attacker’s violent death. The fucker deserved it, and that somehow made John’s actions okay. He was still a murderer… but… he did save Freddie’s life. The homophobe wasn’t intending to just hurt Freddie, he was going to kill him. He was going to kill him just because he was _gay_. 

As they drove home, it was painful for Freddie to hold back his sobs. He didn’t feel like crying in front of his saviour. John could sense Freddie softening his crying, so he turned up the radio so Freddie could use the loud music to hide his noises. John was glad it helped. The murderer needed a break, too.

-0-

“Are you fine walking in yourself?” John asked, peering over at Freddie. The singer nodded.

“Alright, Fred. I’m so sorry about tonight. Don’t go to recording if you aren’t feeling up to it. I’m sure Roger will understand.”

Finally, Freddie spoke. His voice was shaky and soft. It was obvious he was in a lot of pain. “T-thanks.”

John looked down. He shouldn’t be thanking him. It was his fault that Freddie was attacked in the first place. With a sigh, he replied, “Goodnight.”

Freddie nodded in acknowledgement and headed inside. He heard John drive off moments later, leaving Freddie alone. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to be attacked again. Freddie fearfully rushed into the living room in search of Roger, feeling relief wash over him when he saw the blond watching television.

Roger heard his hasty footsteps and looked over in his direction, his face falling when he saw Freddie’s face. 

“Freddie?! What the hell happened?!” He jumped off the couch and ran to his friend, grabbing his arms and frowning when the man flinched. “Did someone hurt you?” _Was it John?_ He kept his last question to himself.

Freddie nodded.

“Let me go get the first aid. Stay on the couch.” Before he could run to the bathroom, a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Don’t leave me alone,” was all Freddie said.

Roger felt his heart sink. Seeing his friend like this was heartbreaking. “Okay, Fred. Come with me, then,” he said softly, entwining their hands to walk with him to the bathroom. The first aid was under the sink, hopefully containing all that Roger needed to help his friend. He got Freddie to sit on the toilet lid as he collected antiseptic and a bandaid for the wound on his cheek. 

He quickly wet a clean cloth and washed away the dried blood around the gash and his nose, holding Freddie’s face in his other hand. The singer nuzzled into the touch, closing his eyes as Roger worked his magic.

“This might hurt a little. Try and keep still for me, okay?” Knowing Freddie was ready, he pressed the wet cloth over the bleeding gash and applied pressure. Freddie flinched with a small hiss but rested back into Roger’s hand.

“Are you able to hold the cloth down yourself?” He asked.

Freddie nodded, so Roger grasped his hand and moved it to rest upon the cloth. Once Freddie started to apply pressure himself, Roger excused himself to fetch an ice pack.

“I swear I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, giving Freddie’s hand a soft squeeze. He felt safe for now, so he let Roger leave. As the drummer promised, he was back within thirty seconds with an icepack (wrapped in a tea towel), cup and a packet of paracetamol in his hands. He held his hand over Freddie’s on the cloth. His hand was cold.

Much like Freddie, Roger was close to tears. He hated seeing his best friend in pain. It was the worst fucking feeling in the world. He wanted to tear apart the person who did this to him. He sniffled and tried to stop himself from crying. He knew Freddie would feel bad if he made Roger cry, he just knew it.

Roger quickly filled the cup up with water and popped some paracetamol pills from their packet. He moved Freddie’s hand and continued to press down on the cloth.

“Here, take these. It’ll help with the pain.” Roger passed them to Freddie, who took them with slight hesitation. He struggled to swallow the pills and water, but eventually, he got them down. His hands were so shaky that he ended up dropping the plastic cup on the floor instead of passing it back to Roger, but the drummer didn’t mind. 

A minute passed of comfortable silence and Roger stopped applying pressure to the gash. He squeezed a drop of antiseptic onto the bandaid he had collected beforehand and quickly placed it over the wound. He smoothed it down and gave Freddie’s hair a playful tousle.

“Let me take care of your nose and then you can rest, alright?” Roger tested quietly, rubbing his thumb gently over Freddie’s cheek. The singer nodded and smiled. Roger, returning his smile, grabbed the icepack again and held it over Freddie’s bruised nose. He wasn’t sure if a bone had been fractured, but the nose was definitely swollen. They would have to see a doctor tomorrow for sure.

Freddie flinched at the initial touch, but the tea towel helped in keeping the cold at just the right temperature. His eyes fluttered shut as a sense of comfort shone over him. He felt safe with Roger. He felt like he was unable to be hurt when he was around Roger. The drummer could always take away his pain. A hand began to comb through his long hair, which only made him feel sleepier. Trauma was tiring.

“How about we sit on the couch in case you fall asleep?” The blond offered, gazing into Freddie’s eyes with his ocean blue own. Freddie nodded, standing and staying close to Roger. They walked into the living room and onto the couch, Freddie leaning on Roger as the drummer held the icepack over his injury. His head was Roger’s shoulder and his eyes were shut, steady breaths leaving his lips as he rested. Freddie enjoyed the warmth his friend gave him. He wanted to curl up in a ball in his lap, but he was sure that wasn't acceptable at the time.

The TV was turned off so it didn’t keep Freddie awake. Roger wrapped an arm around Freddie so he could continue to play with his hair and caress his arms tenderly. He hoped he wasn’t invading his friend’s privacy, he just wanted what was best for Freddie. The singer usually enjoyed being cared for and touched, so Roger assumed he was doing a good thing. He noticed Freddie had drifted off to sleep on his shoulder and he suddenly felt his heart do somersaults inside his chest. 

_Goddammit, how was another man making him feel this way?_ His heart was aching-- almost like he had been stabbed-- but it didn’t hurt. It was a welcomed feeling. He had to stay awake for Fred, no matter how much Roger wanted to rest against his friend and fall asleep. He looked at peace.

He waited until fifteen minutes passed so he could remove the icepack. Luckily, Freddie remained asleep. Roger could sleep as well, now. With his arm still around his friend’s shoulders, he gently rested his head atop Freddie’s and slowly drifted off as well.


	8. Oh, Jealousy Look at Me Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok first of all: im sorry for this sudden froger, but i swear its for the plot (and for my own indulgence lmaooo)

Much like a protective parent, John watched to make sure Freddie had actually entered his house and was safe inside. _Unlike_ a protective parent, John hadn’t tried to help with Freddie’s injuries. The best course of action was to take him to a hospital. Anyone with a friend who had just been attacked would take them to a place run by medical professions. John, however, wasn’t _anyone_ , he was an anything. He didn’t follow the rules that most people felt were natural. Those natural rules that had somehow through the course of evolution built themselves into human DNA weren’t rules that John believed were his duty to obey. He had his own set of rules.

If his friend was hurt, it wasn’t his fucking dilemma to deal with. John had his own issues to tend to. Just because he had a surgeon’s level of expertise when it came to cutting up a human body doesn’t mean he knew how to fix one. His job was to mutilate people beyond points of facial recognition, not give them tips on spiritual healings. If murderers had to fix up their victims after the torture, then what was the point of slicing someone up in the first place?

Any sane person would undoubtedly consider John’s rules to be heartless and ignorant, but those who complained were the ones that ended up on the sharp side of his knife.

Whatever the case, John just hoped blond-boy-Roger paid attention in his biology classes so he knew how to tend to Freddie. During John’s time with the band, he had found Roger to be nothing but an angry, uncoordinated, and feebleminded drunk that just happened to know how to hit stuff with a stick to make musical tones. With that boy’s anger issues, John was surprised he hadn’t killed one of them with his drumkit during one of his futile fits of rage. If it were up to John, he’d have Roger put down like a sick dog, but the drummer really did have a musical talent for keeping a beat.

Though you’d think with John’s insensitive rules, he wouldn’t care about his friend’s wellbeing. He would simply just drive home and have a peaceful sleep while someone else handled the problem. That wasn’t entirely true. Most of the time, yes. That was always the case in the very few times it had happened, but this time something inside of John awakened. He felt like he had discovered a new fucking colour! That’s how absolutely bizarre this feeling was to him. 

John didn’t drive far when he dropped Freddie off. He parked nearby, hopped out and stalked back towards the flat. It wasn’t in his best intentions to be spotted by the two men inside, so he kept to the shadows. He stood near the back windows that gave a view into the living room. With all the foliage around the area, he was practically hidden from plain sight. Looking in through the window wasn’t the clearest view, given that the curtains were designed with the aim of preventing outsiders from seeing inside. It was just enough to make out darkened figures, however.

There were about fifteen minutes of nothing, which John presumed was Roger tending to Freddie’s injuries in another room. The murderer had the patience to wait. God knows he has waited much longer for something _much_ more than this before. 

His patience paid off once two unmistakeable blobs of black made themselves visible against the fabric of the curtains. Immediately, his interest was piqued. Eyes narrowed, he approached the curtain-- only slightly, though. He didn’t want to risk them noticing his figure outside. For now, his shadow probably looked like part of the bushes outside. John was surprised when he noticed his heart rate was gaining a steadying but obvious quickened pace. These weren’t the types of situations that had his heart racing. Playing the waiting game was the boring part: it was the hunt and the thrill of the kill that really made his heart go absolutely wild.

Obviously, he wasn’t intending on murdering anyone tonight-- well, not after he already committed one beforehand. That was a real letdown, in all his immoral honesty. He could blame Freddie for it, but John was the reason he left the club in the first place.

John cursed himself out. He needed to pay attention to the task at hand. Making a purposely annoyed sigh at the overbearing voice in his head, he continued to watch every last movement either Freddie or Roger made. It was easy to tell their silhouettes apart. Roger was slightly taller; though, that was hardly noticeable. The real difference was the hair colours. Even with the curtains as a considerable impeding force, Freddie’s hair had a much darker shadow than Roger’s blond mop.

He watched on, curious to see what they were doing. Of course, by now, John should have left. His friend had been tended to; wasn’t that all he came here to make sure of? There was no need for him to break in through the glass and kidnap Roger for being a shitty caretaker.

There was something bugging John. It was minor; something trivial enough to just sweep under the rug and forget about, but… Fuck, it was unbearable. John knew exactly what it was. The only reason why he didn’t want to act upon it was the fact that a long time ago, someone close to him died when he did do something about it. There was no point lying to himself in saying that it was the other man’s fault that John’s girlfriend died. He knew fair and square that it was his choice to slit her fucking throat when she decided to sleep around like a filthy whore. It was a shame, too. She was only sixteen.

The wanker (who was also nearly twenty years older than her!) that slept with her, unfortunately, passed away. It was unfortunate because John wanted the fucker to rot in his basement for the rest of eternity. If there’s one thing John hated, it was _pedos._ At least that pig spent three years suffering in his basement. He didn’t have the tastiest meat, but he was definitely plump.

In shorter terminology, John was jealous. With the cheap cost of literally zero pounds, Roger could have pretty boy Freddie cuddled on his shoulder like some sort of lost puppy. Yet, here John was, trying to give Freddie a good time without him having to pay anything at all. It was clearly the fact that John was a murderer that turned him off, he could see it in his eyes. Fear: it was always unbridled fear. No matter how hard Freddie tried to mask it, John could sense it. The way he spoke around John, the way he avoided him, or how he became horribly uncomfortable during eye contact. It was obvious, really.

John felt his fists clench. He wanted to smash the window, run in there and _tear_ out Roger’s eyes for daring to even look at Freddie. He wanted to chop off his scrawny little fingers and plunge them into his empty eye sockets. He wanted to drive a goddamn drumstick up his ass! John was incredibly pissed off.

The serial killer had enough moral smarts to run back to his car before his anger took control of him. He drove off without looking back. Jealously was the worst kind of problem when it came to John. It wasn’t the worst for him, so to speak. _It was the worst for the person that dared to make him jealous in the first place._

-0-

It was a well-known fact that once a person was inside a dream, they were trapped until they woke up. As far as their brains were concerned, the outside world didn’t even exist. This was a problem when it came to nightmares. It was like living in a horror movie but with no pause button or fast forward to skip through the gruesome and grisly scenes.

As warm and cuddly Roger was, those qualities didn’t prevent Freddie from suffering a nightmare during the middle of the night. Neither of them had woken up at first; Freddie writhing madly on the couch as sweat pooled from his pores. Sounds of fright erupted from the man every few seconds, and that’s what woke Roger up. It was like watching a dying man trying to call for help… but he couldn’t physically form the words he so desperately needed to say.

Roger, panicked, shook his friend awake. The second Freddie’s eyes shot open, he was pulled into a tight hug with his very own shoulder to cry on. Of course, that was Roger’s shoulder, but it was there for a reason. The frightened man wiped his eyes on Roger’s shirt as he hacked up hoarse sobs, his entire body jerking from every sound of grief that split from his lips. This was more than just upset crying, it was petrified weeping. Roger had never heard such distressing noises in his entire life span.

“It’s okay, Fred. You’re at home, you’re safe.” Roger didn’t have a fucking clue what he was supposed to say, but from the number of romantic dramas he’d been forced to sit through, he’d say he had a vague idea. He had a hand planted on Freddie’s back, rubbing gently. He could feel the vibration of Freddie’s shuddering choked gasps in his hand. He clenched his fist in both fury and sorrow. Whoever did this to his friend had to pay. It was absolutely depressing to see the usually bright and uncaring man in such anguished tears.

Freddie was a mess of limbs. His thoughts were jumbled like a puzzle missing a piece, his hands couldn’t find a suitable place to settle, and his throat felt as if it had been slit. Everything fucking ached and all he wanted to do was cry until nothing was left. He had a deathly tight grip on Roger’s shirt like he was scared he would die if he let go. Whenever another sob tore from his heart, he would tug Roger closer unintentionally and hide his puffy face in the man’s chest. Roger’s heart was pounding so viciously inside his chest that Freddie could feel it against his lips. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to just _bite down_ , but he restrained himself. 

At one point, Freddie felt like he was in his mother’s arms. It was a loving embrace, one that showed true care and distress for Freddie’s condition. He was being rocked and forth like a small child rushing to his mum after a horrible nightmare. The arms he was in were so warm, holding him close so firmly and lovingly. 

“Fred… I’m right here, you’re safe…” Roger’s voice was the quietest Freddie had ever heard it. It was nearly a whisper, but it was obvious he was trying to hide the fact he was close to crying, too. Freddie hated making his friends upset. They didn’t deserve to put up with his stupid shit. When he looked up, he noticed Roger was, in fact, the mother that was rocking him soundly in his arms. Freddie was half expecting him to start cooing at him like a baby.

“Rog--” Freddie was going to add to his sentence, but he remembered how sore his throat was. He literally couldn’t form the words. A husky croak uttered from him instead of actual words, and now he really felt like a baby that deserved to be cooed at.

“Don’t talk,” Roger suggested. His hand was suddenly in Freddie’s hair, pushing it out of his face. Everything about Freddie was horribly sweaty at the moment, but Roger wasn’t one to care about such small things. He kept his fingers in his friend’s hair, combing back the sweaty mop to try and calm him.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Not by a long shot. His nightmare was probably one of the worst he’d ever had. It was like reliving last night, but it wasn’t his attacker that suffered John’s wrath. It was Freddie. Trapped inside his own head, Freddie watched as John gutted him like a butcher’s pig. His guts were torn from his body and he swore he felt all of it. There was so much blood, oh god, it was pooling all around him. John was soaked in blood like he had taken a bath in the scarlet fluid. He was laughing. John was cackling like an absolute maniac. There was a wide grin-- wide enough to fall right off his face-- plastered across his bloodied face.

Organ by organ, Freddie simply wouldn’t die. It kept going. He was sure he didn’t have as many organs as John had pulled out of his body, but his brain thought otherwise. He’d have as many organs as it took for him to wake up.

That aside, Freddie nodded so he didn’t have to continue worrying Roger. He didn’t like lying, but if it made him feel better, so be it.

“That’s good. That’s good…” Roger sighed, using the back of his cuff to wipe his eyes. His voice sounded a little raw. “Uhm, I guess we should call off recording again?”

The singer, unable to speak, shrugged. He didn’t feel up to it, but that didn’t mean the others couldn’t record. Wait-- that meant Roger would leave Freddie alone. He didn’t want to be alone. 

He changed his mind. “Yes,” Freddie groaned huskily, nodding his head with purpose. “Call… it off…”

Roger’s eyebrows furrowed in distress. He didn’t want Freddie to hurt his throat any more than it already was. “Alright, whatever’s best for you. I’ll tell John and Brian later.”

Watching Freddie nod, Roger sighed again. He was exhausted. Too much stress in such a short span of time always made him tired. By the night sky outside the windows, it was probably around 3 am. It felt like the morning, but the type of morning you'd usually be asleep during.

“Do you think you'd be comfortable with falling back asleep?”

No! Fuck no, Freddie didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to suffer through watching John slowly take him apart like a broken toy. That's probably what Freddie was to him. That's what they all were to him. John had never said anything remotely like that to any of them, but it was obvious without the verbal confirmation.

Even though his throat was still painfully dry, he managed to utter a few words. “Only if you're here--” he coughed, “--with me.”

“Of course. I'll stay here with you. I'm not risking you murdering my ass when I leave for a quick piss,” Roger laughed softly, peering down at his friend with the kindest eyes he physically could maintain. He didn't even know how lovingly he was gazing at him until Freddie commented on his unusually _gay_ behaviour.

“Okay, lover boy…” He chuckled hoarsely, coughing again. It was worth it for the look on Roger’s face. It was a mixture of embarrassment and humiliation, but also contentment. A friendly joke between the two was a nice change from the gloomy atmosphere they had been lingering in beforehand.

This moment of theirs could easily be misjudged as a scene from a romance, yet, the neither of them acknowledged that. Freddie was sat in Roger’s lap, Roger was caressing caring fingers through his friend’s hair with his other arm wrapped around him, and the _looks they were giving each other?_ It was something straight out of a sappy romance film.

Roger cleared his throat. “Not to be… _totally gay_ , but, uhm--” his cheeks were flushed. “You can sleep in my lap if you want. You don't have to! I'm just saying since you’re already here--”

“Darling,” Freddie stopped him, putting a finger to his lips with a smile. “Lie down.”

“Oh,” Roger choked nervously, his cheeks reddening. “Okay.” As he laid down with Freddie above him, it either took a bite out of his pride or made him rethink his sexuality. The latter option was honestly terrifying. He very audibly took a timid gulp as he looked up at his friend. It was obvious Freddie was trying to be convincing, but he was smiling too much to be taken seriously. He was trying to tease Roger; acting as if he was a seductive lady about to go down on him.

Okay, to be honest, it was kinda hot. With all of Freddie’s characteristics, it would have been easy to mistake him for a woman. His long hair, luscious eyelashes, makeup (that by now was washed away by tears, but still visibly faded), and his slender body... Fuck. Roger had to stop Freddie before he accidentally popped a boner. 

“Okay, okay, very funny. Get down here already,” he quipped playfully. His arms reached around Freddie and pulled him down so they were flat against each other. Roger realised that really didn’t help with his problem. Roger Taylor was a man of many talents, but stifling a boner was not one.

“Can I ask an awkward question?” Before he had to face the cold truth of his dick betraying him, he wanted Freddie to know so the moment wasn’t as painful.

Freddie’s head was resting on his shoulder. “Yes?”

“You wouldn’t hate me, right, if I accidentally popped a stiffy?”

The question was definitely not expected. Freddie moved from his comfortable position just to give Roger _the look._

“Darling, I’m gay,” Freddie laughed. "I’d probably rather if you did get a boner.”

“Don’t say that!” Roger whisper yelled, blushing. He looked like an embarrassed school girl. “You’ll just encourage it!”

Freddie giggled and poked Roger’s nose, before nestling back onto his shoulder. He stroked his finger over Roger’s arm in soft and delicate brushes. It calmed him, and it seemed to be calming Roger as well.

The drummer’s breathing slowed as he relaxed alongside his friend. 

“Goodnight, Fred,” he spoke tenderly, keeping one arm wrapped protectively around Freddie. The singer simply nodded. He continued to draw shapes over the blond’s soft skin until he fell asleep. His calm breaths weighed gently against Freddie’s torso as his chest raised and settled. 

“Goodnight, Rog…” Soon after, Freddie was asleep, too.


	9. Silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hHh i had,,,,so much writer's block while trying to write this chapter. i hope it was worth the wait sdkjdfgs

As Roger promised, he called John and Brian to inform them that the band's recording session had been cancelled again. Brian was understanding and asked if something had happened, so Roger told him as much as he knew. On the other hand, John wasn’t as understanding. The bassist was unmistakably irritated by the sound of Roger’s voice, and he hung up before Roger could finish. That man was painfully complicated. It physically pained Roger to figure out a valid reason as to why he was that way.

Nevertheless, the phone calls were handled, which left the rest of the day ahead of them. 

Freddie was in the kitchen cooking up breakfast. Neither of them were chefs, so the fanciest breakfast they had were sausages and… well, not eggs. Roger could still remember the first time that Freddie found out about his secret sworn foe.

He had asked one morning, “Roger, sweetie, do you know how to boil an egg?”

Roger had frozen on the spot. Oh no, his greatest enemy. _Eggs_. As it turned out, it looked like he wasn't the only person with an egg problem.

“Let me guess, you can't boil one either?”

Short story even shorter, Freddie acted like they were going to starve until Roger had to literally drive to them the closest fast food restaurant to fetch some pancakes. The pancakes were probably better than anything either of them could have cooked up, in all honesty.

Back to the current timeline, Freddie still didn't know how to boil eggs. Roger sauntered into the kitchen with a tired shuffle, walking up behind his friend and peering over his shoulder. He smiled when he saw Freddie was frying up some sausages and bacon.

“Oh, a gourmet meal! You cooking for someone special?” Roger teased, resting his chin on Freddie’s shoulder.

“That's confidential information, darling,” he chuckled, nudging his head gently against Roger’s. With only mere seconds to process what he was doing, an unexpected impulsive thought took control of Roger. His hand snaked around Freddie’s waist and pulled him closer. _Shit_ \-- Freddie wasn't a chick. They weren't dating. _They weren't in love._ What the fuck was Roger doing?

“Sorry--” he muttered nervously, backing off.

Freddie looked back at him with confusion and concern evident on his face. "Sorry for what?"

“Touching you like… that.” His voice had gone quiet.

The singer smiled, laughing softly. “Oh, Rog. I don't mind.” He turned around and leaned forward, grabbing his friend’s hand. He pulled him closer and pecked his cheek with a quick kiss. Roger swore his brain imploded at that very moment. 

“I'm your friend. I don't care where you touch me--”

“I'm gonna have to stop you right there, mister.” Roger ruffled Freddie’s hair with a playful smile. “Try not to burn the sausages, by the way.”

“Oh shit.” Freddie completely forgot about their moment in a second, turning around again to finish cooking breakfast. Roger rolled his eyes fondly and sat at the dining room table, reaching over for the newspaper. It's not like anything interesting happened in Britain. He only read the paper just in case their band suddenly got popular without being informed prior. Roger didn't want to be a pessimist, so he kept his hopes up high.

After a few minutes of flipping through the uneventful newspaper (the most exciting thing that happened was human combustion but living to tell the tale), Freddie placed a plate of sausages and bacon in front of him. 

“Hungry?” Freddie quizzed, smiling.

“Bloody right I am!” The drummer felt happiest at home when he was served a good breakfast. There was a beam painted across his face as he dug into his greasy but fucking delicious meal. He noticed Freddie wasn’t eating and looked up, cocking a brow. Freddie could feel his eyes on him and looked down at the table, picking at the worn timber absentmindedly.

Roger didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, so he joked to break the tension.

“Fred, it's a lovely breakfast, but where’s the boiled egg?”

There was a hitch in the air. Freddie slowly looked up at Roger, pointing his bread knife directly at him with a murderous glare.

“You're a cunt.”

Roger laughed, relieved that Freddie was still his old self. “Ah, there’s the Freddie I know.”

-0-

No matter how much Roger tried to convince Freddie that it was fine if he needed more days off, Freddie wasn’t going to let the album be delayed any longer. Besides, the man knew how to tuck trauma away from ever seeing the light of day. No one needed to know he was having terrible nightmares, crying during his sleep, and wanting to tear out his own fucking eyes. Those were Freddie’s problems; no one deserved to be dragged into them.

The first one to greet him as he arrived was Brian, of course. The poodle-haired man had rushed to Freddie’s side with a kind and caring smile. Even though his smile was genuine, his eyes held concern. After what Roger told him, he was surprised Freddie was back on his feet so soon.

“I'm glad you're feeling better, Fred,” Brian said, patting his friend's shoulder. “I hope Roger didn't go clubbing for two days straight and ignored you.” He shot a glare at Roger. The drummer held his hands up defensively.

“No,” Freddie started. “He stayed with me. Surprisingly,” he teased, giving Roger a light tap on his cheek. 

“At least you two aren't at each other’s throats. Do you think it can stay that way?”

“Oh, fuck no. Are you bloody bonkers?” Freddie laughed at the idea of them suddenly deciding not to fight, that would surely never happen.

Brian sighed with a small smile. Suddenly, his expression fell, as if he had just seen a ghost.

“Wait, I needed to ask you both something. Would you have any idea as to why John is acting so weird?”

A tense silence hit the air. Roger peeked over at Freddie, noticing that his friend looked profoundly distressed by what Brian had asked. With a small shiver, Freddie sucked in his lips and his brows creased. He rubbed his arm anxiously.

Surprisingly, Freddie spoke up first. He rushed his words like he wanted to finish the conversation as soon as possible.

“We have no idea, honey,” he answered hastily, biting his lip.

“Huh, well, he won’t talk. I know he’s the quiet guy and all, but he literally won’t speak. I hope he’s okay,” he fretted restlessly, twiddling with his fingers. Naturally, Brian would care about John's wellbeing. He had no clue he was a serial killer. Though, even if he did, Freddie could see Brian still worrying about him. Hell, he'd probably even try to help John with his murder obsession like a fucked up Narcotics Anonymous sponsor.

Roger spoke next, "Don't worry about him, he's probably just going through a phase. He'll be over it tomorrow."

A jittery exhale left Freddie's lips after he accidentally bit down too hard on them. 

He responded, "Yes, most likely."

Freddie’s attention dissipated from the conversation very quickly. He couldn't get John out of his head. The murderous scumbag hadn't bothered him for a few days, which was the longest Freddie hadn't seen him in ages. His _attack_ was still fresh in his mind, but John’s vengeance was fresher. He had saved Freddie’s life. Though, his brain seemed to turn that into a bad thing. Instead of having nightmares of his assault, all he could see was John. Every night without fail, John would be there. In his head, haunting him and slaughtering him like a pig.

Basically, being alone with his thoughts was an absolute shitshow. He constantly wanted to chat with someone to be distracted from his overwhelming anxieties. That’s why having two days off with Roger was relaxing. Once those two were talking, it took a lot to pull them apart. Freddie wished he could find something more that could take his mind away from things, but the last thing he wanted to do was go back to the club so soon. Maybe he could find another gay guy that was up for a fun time.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by Roger.

“Enough chit chat, I wanna play some fucking drums!” He had been deprived of drumming for more than a day, which was long enough to make him go absolutely nuts. When Roger Taylor wanted to play the drums, he got what he damn wanted. He pushed past Brian and ran inside.

Freddie sighed, patting Brian’s arm before following his friend inside. At least Roger went in first, that meant he wouldn’t have to feel as awkward when he met eyes with John. The last thing that happened between them was… well, murder. Not only that, but every time Freddie cried himself asleep, the last thing he saw in his mind was _John._ It made for a very uncomfortable encounter when he entered the recording studio.

John didn’t speak. He was distancing himself completely, only glancing up at the others once before completely ignoring the fact they were there. His attention was completely drawn to his bass guitar, which he plucked restlessly. Even without spoken verification, he seemed snappy. Freddie felt like a bass guitar would come hurling at his face if he even dared to glance at John. He gulped nervously and kept his eyes on the ground.

The room lingered with an uneasy aura, all of which resonated from John. The deep vibrations of his bass made Freddie's chest rumble with something akin to fear. A shiver ran down his spine, hurrying him into the control room so he could escape Deaky’s intimidating presence. 

Roger stood close next to him, side-eyeing him to see what he was thinking. 

"So... That's fun. For such a scrawny little thing, he's quite intimidating," Roger commented, taking a look at John through the glass. His fingers were following along the strings of his bass, seemingly lost in thought. If Roger saw his face, that would give some insight what exactly John was thinking.

Freddie didn't respond verbally. He nodded in agreement. His attention was too drawn on John to fully comprehend what Roger had said. Feeling safe behind the glass, Freddie kept his eyes fixed on the silent bassist. He tucked in his hands in his pockets and felt himself shrink, almost like he was subconsciously frightened that John might pull out a gun and shoot him.

Suddenly, the glass didn't make Freddie feel safe at all.

Brian walked in, standing by Freddie's left. The guitarist peered at John for a moment. "Weird, right?"

"I guess," Roger conceded, folding his arms. "I've always thought he was a bit of a nutter."

 _If you knew the things I knew, you'd think he was much more than a nutter._ Freddie pinched the bridge of his nose with a breathy sigh. Fuck John for creating drama! This was meant to be a time where the band could catch up with all the time they'd missed.

"Fuck John, I'm sure he can still play his bass. Can we _please_ get a move on?" Freddie abruptly snapped, turning his back to the glass. His breaths were shallow and sharp, his narrowed eyes meeting with his friend's. The two men nodded, clearly disturbed by Freddie's sudden outburst. He looked a tad apprehensive before, but now he just seemed downright furious.

"Yes, of course, Fred." Brian offered a kind smile and ran off into the live room to fetch his guitar. Roger followed suit, heading to his drums. 

Freddie stayed behind in the control room to collect his bearings. They always got to the recording studio earlier than the audio engineers and record producer so he'd wait for them to arrive. Hopefully, their presence would opposite the effect John had on the band. Getting the music rolling would help distract them all from their worries. Luckily, John might even stop sulking and liven up a little. Freddie couldn’t think of a single reason why the psycho was acting so weird, but mayhaps it was because he was just that: _a psycho._

But with all of John’s flaws, there had to be a reason why he was acting so strange today. Something might have happened, or maybe he just had a mood swing. Murderers tended to be mentally unstable. Well, _all_ murderers were unstable. If they were sane, they wouldn’t be going around stabbing people. Another flash of his terrible nightmares flitted through his mind, prompting him to freak out and lose balance. He toppled forward in a panic but managed to stop himself from hitting the floor when he reached out and grabbed the edge of a desk. A trembling sigh of fear passed his lips as he choked out a gasp. 

Brian and Roger had noticed his tumble and came running in, while John remained seated. He never looked up, but he knew what had happened.

"Fred, are you okay?" Brian asked with a tremble to his voice, holding a supportive arm around Freddie's shoulders. He helped the singer onto his feet and gave him a worried look.

"I'm fine, darling. Just had a bit of a tumble." He tried laughing it off, but it was indisputable that he was distressed. His smile was the fakest Brian had ever seen and the singer's lip was quivering like a leaf. It looked like he was about to break down and start sobbing.

"Try and have a quick rest before the others get here, yeah?" Brian didn't take his eyes off Freddie.

"Alright, dear. Really, I'm fine," Freddie tried to convince him to no avail. The guitarist wasn't letting this slide. As the Mum friend, it was his job to make sure no one got hurt.

Another hand rested on Freddie's shoulder, grabbing his attention. It was Roger's. The blond smiled meekly and squeezed his friend's shoulder to show support. Freddie smiled back.

Freddie looked through the glass again, eyeing John sitting in the corner of the room. The bassist was still plucking chords. It was like he wasn't even apart of their dimension, and his head was elsewhere. He would have stared at him longer, but when John's head suddenly shot upward and made eye contact, Freddie felt his soul leave his body. There was no words to describe the absolute fucking paralyzing fear he felt when their eyes locked. It was like looking into a portal to hell itself. John didn't have any real emotion. There was utterly nothing behind his eyes. All that was in him was a gaping void of nothingness.

His head turned so quickly that he pulled a muscle in his neck and was left groaning in Brian's arms. Fuck, dammit-- why did he do these things to himself? 

"Freddie! Just don’t move, okay?" Brian sounded just as stressed as Fred, if not worse. "Just wait for the others."

"Fine," he grunted, rubbing his neck. He couldn't even move it; how was he supposed to sing? Oh, fucking hell. "This goddamn neck sprain better fuck off soon."

"If you stop wriggling around so much, maybe it will go away."

Freddie stopped wriggling and folded his arms like a grumpy child, slumping right into Brian's hold. "Fine, _Mum._ "

Brian patted Freddie's head in a way that was meant to be assertive, but he was too scared to hurt him. "Good boy."

"Never say that again."

"Already planning on it."

At least with their little jokes, Freddie's mind could rest. There was no need to worry about Deaky, right? Freddie hadn't done anything to hurt him, so he couldn't have been angry at him. He was probably just having a shitty day and tomorrow he'd be fine.

Freddie glanced at Roger to take his mind off things a little more. The blond's cute smile made his heart swell. He didn't say anything, but he reached his hand out and cupped Roger's face, lightly caressing his thumb over the corner of his lips.

"What's got you all smiley, mister?" Freddie giggled, pulling his hand away. He noticed a slight change in Roger's demeanour when he pulled away. It looked like he wanted his hand there, but Freddie wasn’t completely sure.

"You." Roger realised how gay that sounded and continued. "You _two_ , I mean. You're a funny lot."

Freddie smiled, he knew that wasn't what he wanted to say originally. "Whatever you say, Rog."


	10. All dead, all dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAA SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT SDJFK,,... i was like,,,,,,super unmotivated to finish writing the first part and i was stressing out abt school sdkkfds,,i hope this satisfies the time it took to write
> 
> also: warning for this chapter. it's more graphic than the others. if you don't wanna read graphic murder, just skip the first part and read on ;)

A lot had happened in the two days before recording. First, John found out that Freddie was trying to get on Roger’s dick. It was sickeningly obvious, really. Sure, Roger was a pretty boy, but he was a simple-minded idiot, too. All he could do was hit shit with drumsticks and pull people’s teeth out. There was nothing special about him. John couldn’t play the drums, but he knew how to pull teeth out. Maybe not in the same way a dentist could, but in a way he preferred.

The second thing that happened, well, John seized his anger out on an innocent girl. After seeing his crush falling for someone else, his jealousy had got the best of him. He didn’t even know this chick, never even seen her before, but that made the murder easier.

He entered through the window during the silence of the night, keeping his every sound quiet and muted as his gloved hands navigated the dark house. His heart was pounding in his chest from the thrill of the hunt. There were no lights on, so he assumed the occupant was asleep. He slipped into the bedroom once he found it, standing over the sleeping body that was wrapped in sheets of white. There was only a hint of light gleaming in from the moon outside. Her steady breaths carried softly through the stillness of the room, breaths that were soon to be cut short. 

John drew his butcher knife from his pocket and perched over the bed, thoughtful eyes wandering along the sleeping body. She looked at peace. She had no idea of the monster in her room. A gentle hand brushed along her arm, yet she remained asleep. 

John wondered what her name was. He wondered about her pets, her friends, her family and her lovers. There were so many people he could hurt by removing one random girl from the equation. So many lives he could ruin with just a single knife. At the start of John's murderous career, those thoughts were the ones that stopped him from enjoying a kill. The guilt made him sick to the stomach, sometimes to the point where he would have to throw up. Once he nearly turned himself into the police because the guilt had got too overwhelming to deal with. 

With all these years of killing, he learnt to push those thoughts away. They were worse when he killed… children. When John was a teenager, he didn't really have a code to follow. He just killed whoever was available to him. At the time, kids were the easiest. With John’s job as a clown (yes, he used to be a clown), there were always little stupid children that he could lure away and then mutilate with an axe. As long as it got him his satisfaction, he couldn't have cared less. But then he did care when he started to worry about the kid’s family, and then it ruined the kill altogether. Fun, right? John wished he was a downright psychopath.

However, now John didn't care about the girl in bed. All he wanted was his knife under her skin and her screams to pleasure him. He lifted the butcher knife and plunged it into her hip, grinning widely as she awoke abruptly with a hoarse scream of pain.

“What the fuck?!” She practically howled, shooting upright. Her limbs shot out at all sides in a panicked frenzy. “Oh, fuck!”

Oh, she had a potty mouth. 

“Watch your language. Don't make me cut your tongue out.” Deaky left the knife embedded within her hip so he could effectively manage both his hands. He held one over her mouth and struggled to her head down flat on the pillow as he pushed her back down. He hopped onto the bed and straddled her hips to keep her steady. The more they struggled, the harder it was to cut them up.

She was writhing around like a maddened snake, hands clawing all over John’s arms and face to try and get him off. Her nails, while short, were still painful as they scratched at his skin frantically. It left a burning sensation all over him, but he was used to it. He always ended up bleeding after this shit. It was a messy job, after all.

“Try not to wriggle around too much. My victims tend to realise that that only makes the knife dig in deeper,” he offered, knowing she wouldn't listen. John liked to talk to his victims casually. It felt intimate, you know? When he was the person they were spending their last moments with, it really felt special.

The girl's panicked screams were slightly muffled by Deaky’s hand. She bit him suddenly and continued to scream for help, stopping once John threw a powerful blow to her jaw. With her jaw now popped out of its socket, her screams were now just moans of pain.

“Sorry, I should have told you that screaming for help would cause me to do that. That one's on me,” John apologised in amusement. Her vicious clawing hands had stopped digging into his skin as she slowly came to the conclusion that she was fucked. It was always better to give up sooner than later! The more fighting, the more Deaky had to punish them for being disobedient.

John noticed his arms were bleeding in various places with long, angry red scratches accompanying. She had tried grabbing and scratching his face, which she did manage to do, and John could feel his own blood welling up and running down his face like tears. 

“You're a nasty little bitch, aren't you?” He hissed, biting his lip as he glared harshly at the girl beneath him. She whimpered and could barely subdue her sobs. Her face was glistening with crystal blue tears as they streamed from her puffy eyes. 

John grunted and pulled the blade out of her hip, a spray of blood following. With strong hands, he pulled her up and off of the bed. She attempted to struggle free, but John kept a firm grip around her neck with his arm, and his other hand held the girl’s hands together. If the bitch even tried to run off, the knife in his hand would slice her neck in half.

He walked her through the house and into the kitchen, slamming her into the counter and draping her top half over it. With one hand holding her head down and the other wielding a knife, he held the edge of the blade right over her thighs. Her frantic breaths caught when she felt the cold steel rest on her skin. Oh fuck, she regretted wearing nothing but lingerie to bed now.

“You don't have to worry, I'm not a rapist,” he laughed, dipping down near her ear. “But my knife sure is.” His hand moved down to her back to steady her, and with one lethal slash, he swung the knife right into her flabby thighs. The blade cut deep with a wet rip and a crimson shower spilling from the attack. The girl screamed out in agony and tried to pull away, but John was stronger. For his size, he definitely had enough muscle to hold a girl down and dice her up like a carrot.

Another swing and he dug the blade into her flesh like putty. He kept at it until nearly her entire left leg was scarlet with gore, with mangled skin and flesh exposed to the bare eye. There was a pool of blood where she stood and she was obviously finding it incredibly difficult to even keep herself standing. Both her legs were shaking like mad and he wouldn't have been surprised if she didn't piss herself out of shock.

“You're doing great, sweetie,” he cooed menacingly, licking his lips. “You're a tough girl.”

Her only reply was a broken sob of sorrow. John almost felt bad for her.

Naturally, it would seem obvious that he then cut up her other leg, but alas, she would definitely perish from blood loss by then. John didn't want that. He liked them going as long as they could. Humming to himself, he grabbed her by the neck and threw her onto the ground and onto her back. The hard fall had knocked the breath out of her, causing her to gasp and choke out. 

There was one more thing he had to deal with before he could initiate the final tribulation. Deaky stood over her and grabbed her arm. With both legs on each side of her body, he swiftly but forcibly smashed her inner arm against his leg and pulled it back to an unnatural angle. A loud crack resonated in the air, followed by a scream of pain. Broken arms stopped the victims from struggling when they were gutted. He broke her other arm with ease; glad to know that she was too pained to fight back.

He kneeled down over her legs and suddenly pulled out a scalpel.

“Bare with me here, this is going to sting.” In slow and precise movements, he slipped the very tip of the scalpel under her skin right near her shoulder joint. He made a clean incision down and under her breast to her sternum, then repeated the incision other side and stopped at the same place. Carefully, he cut a horizontal line straight down from the sternum, stopping just above her belly button. This ‘Y’ shaped incision was used in autopsies during internal examinations. Apparently, they were also useful when it came to gutting people like fish.

Likewise, with most of his victims, she looked close to passing out, and to be honest, he was surprised she was still kicking. It was unfortunate for her, but fortunate for Deaky.

“Don't pass out on me yet.” Here came the messiest part. With steady fingers, he slipped them into the reddened incision and under the thick layer of skin and fat, literally pulling her body into two separate parts with one, moist rip. The scream she emitted was deafening. John had to hurry up before someone called the cops. After that piercing screech, he would be surprised if no one in the neighbourhood heard. He made sure to separate all of the skin and fat from the organs and rib cage with quick slashes of his scalpel. 

This would have to be rushed, but it could still be done right. Scalpel in hand, he sliced through her abdominal sac and pushed it aside. With a hard tug, he pulled out her large intestines, followed by her small intestines. Even with his gloves on, he could feel how moist and squishy the organs were. He cut them loose from her body and draped them across the floor in a pool of crimson gore and continued to pull out whatever organ he could find. By the time he had cut and removed her pancreas, kidney and spleen, she passed out. Either it was from shock or blood loss, she was definitely out cold. A strong stench of urine filled the room and Deaky had to swallow to stop himself from gagging. The gutting he was fine with, but the smells were sickening. Even the organs stunk. It was a rich irony smell mixed with something that was unnameable. 

John finished the gutting job quickly and messily. He was covered in blood by the time he was done, but the girl was in a worse state. Not only was she drenched in her own blood, but she had died before he finished. Her lifeless eyes had rolled into the back of her skull and her body was pale from the severe blood loss.

Deaky pulled some plastic bags out of his backpack and placed the organs inside. Not all of them, just the most useful: Lungs, heart, stomach and kidneys. The others weren't entirely tasty or healthy. He pulled his backpack on again and stood up, rushing to the window he had climbed in through originally. 

He didn't even know her name. That always helped. Not knowing who you were killing. The less you knew them, the easier it was to take them away from everyone else.

-0-

It was unexpected when John turned up for the band’s next studio session. The last time they all recorded, John looked ready to kill everyone in the room and then himself. When they had tried contacting him about the recording session, he never picked up the phone. That was the initial reason why they were astounded when the bassist arrived at the session. It was obvious that he had hesitated on coming since he came late, waddling in like a lost duckling. He wasn't as reclusive as he had been last time, but his eyes failed to make contact with his bandmates'.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Roger scoffed, idly tapping his drums as his stern eyes followed John. "What made you remember you were apart of the band?"

John rolled his eyes, picking up his bass from the corner of the studio. He sat down and plucked at the thick strings of his bass, refusing to look at the others.

"Let's just hurry up and get this session over with, yeah?" Brian added into the uncomfortable silence.

Freddie joined in, "That's the best idea I've heard all week, Bri. I want to get absolutely shitfaced after this." Any amount of alcohol could be enough to drive Freddie to sanity. Seriously, at this point, being drunk was the only thing that made him feel normal. No normal person lived with the knowledge of their friend being a murderer.

"Well, I'm glad we have our priorities in place. Are we all ready?"

They all nodded-- well, except for John.

-0-

The recording session went longer than usual, mainly because of all the days they had missed beforehand. With all these delays on the album, it would have to be released next year at best. The extra thirty minutes wasn't much of a strain on them, but a few beers were sure to loosen them up. Surprisingly, even John came along, too. Whatever weird-ass murderer phase he was going through was not compelling enough to quench his thirst for cocktails, it seemed.

He kept a distance between himself and the other three when they sat at the bar. Freddie was closest to him, but with Roger by his side, he didn't even notice the killer was staring at him the whole time. They mostly chatted amongst themselves and glanced up at the overhead television occasionally. 

It was all well and good before Brian interrupted with a sickened voice, "Oh, God." The other two worryingly looked to their friend, noticing his eyes were glued to the TV. Intrigued, they both followed Brian's line of sight to the television. Roger wasn't particularly troubled by the scene, but Freddie was horrified. He was horrified because he knew more than anyone else did.

The news was on, showing a blurred image of a fairly recent murder. Behind the censor was blood-- a lot of it, too. It was indisputable, given that most of the blur was red. The subtitles read: _"A seventeen-year-old girl was found brutally murdered in her home after her parents went out for their anniversary, thinking that their daughter was safe on her own."_

A pang of both fury and disgust struck Freddie. That poor young girl had been stripped of her life just for some sick fuck's pleasure. Said sick fuck was sitting just meters away from him, too. Suddenly, he felt nauseous.

"Do you think it was the London Gutter again?" Brian asked quietly, clasping his hands together nervously. He didn't notice John's small smile in the corner of his eye.

Freddie shook his head. Not in disagreement, but just at the very thought of that shitty nickname. No, he wasn't the London Gutter. _He was John Deacon, the bassist from Queen!_ His nausea was only getting worse by the second. It wasn't the brutal murder that upset him; it was the fact that it was Freddie's fault. If he had just told the police about John, that girl would've still had all her organs inside her and not inside John's fridge.

He had to tell someone about John. This was fucking eating him up inside, day by day. If someone close to him knew, maybe he could grow the balls to go to the police. He was terrified that John was constantly watching his every move, knowing where he is at all times, that he didn't want to risk going to the police station.

"I just hope the wanker rots in jail," Roger sneered boldly, baring his teeth. "Killing young girls... That's crossing a line."

John had to stifle his laugh. They were idiots. The younger the meat was, the fresher it tasted. It wasn't like he was preying on young girls to pleasure himself, he just wanted his dinner not to taste like overcooked testicles. Was that really so bad?

Brian had to look away from the TV. "I don't care what happens to him. I just want him off the streets more than anything."

Freddie didn't add to the conversation. He was scared he would vomit if he opened his mouth. He desperately needed to leave.

"Sorry, darlings. I feel under the weather. I might leave."

The others looked up at him, worried. "You good?" In reply, Freddie shook his head.

"I'll go home with you, Fred," Roger offered, standing up and placing a tender hand on his shoulder. Freddie mumbled a quiet 'thanks' and leaned into the touch.

Brian stood up next, approaching his friends like a worried mother. "Did you drink too much?"

"It's either that or the shit on the news," he growled, flinching at the thought. "Don't worry about me, sweetie. I'll be fine."

Brian nodded and gave his friend a comforting rub on the arm. He walked Freddie out of the bar with Roger, all of them completely disregarding Deaky's presence. Well, all of them except for Freddie. The singer's eyes couldn't help but take one last glance at the murderer as they walked past.

John gave him a cold grin and put a finger over his own lips. _'Don't tell a soul,'_ said his glare, but Freddie wanted to disobey. That vile scumbag had no right to manipulate and control Freddie like a puppet. In just a little while longer, Queen might just have to look for a new bassist again.


	11. to have the loneliness erased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short and shitty sorry. next chapter is gonna be,,,,,,,,better >:)))

This was the day: the day that Freddie wouldn’t be alone anymore. The sole idea of disobeying John’s words made him sick to the stomach. He worried that John would somehow find out that Freddie divulged his secret and then hunt him down, locking him in his basement until he died of some heinous infection that lurked in the musty shithole. To him, John was an all-knowing figure, someone who knew everything while being as mortal as they came. In reality, John was just an idiot that shouldn't have let his impulsive thoughts take control of his life. If he stopped his hand from killing the first rabbit, he never would've known the orgasmic thrill of taking a life. 

Freddie never spent time thinking about John's flaws. The only flaw he was concerned about was the fact he was a sadistic serial killer. He was too afraid of John to call him an idiot. However, Freddie knew a man that would never let John scare him. 

The man to join Freddie’s world of loneliness was Roger Taylor. The drummer was sitting on the couch watching some random sitcom when Freddie sat down next to him. Roger looked over to him with a small but curious smile.

“I thought you went to bed?” Roger inquired, turning his body to face his friend.

Freddie had originally told Roger he was heading to bed, but that was a ruse to have some time alone. All he needed was silence to work out everything he needed to say. But now it was happening, and he was honestly terrified.

“I thought I was, too," Freddie lied, breathing a nervous chuckle. "As it turns out, that's not what I'm doing. I need to tell you something.”

Roger noticed Freddie was deathly serious about this 'something'. It was obvious the frontman was incredibly anxious. His skin was glistening with sweat, he was fiddling madly with his fingers, and his breathing rate was far from healthy.

“You can tell me anything, mate. What's up?”

Freddie paused, feeling a tight knot in his throat. He felt like he was choking on a fucking tennis ball. 

“This is… hard to explain. It's been eating me up for weeks and I-- I don't even think I can tell you, I'm sorry--”

Roger reached forward and grabbed his friend's arm, pulling him closer. His other hand rested on his shoulder. He could tell Freddie was worked up about this.

“Hey, hey, Fred. It's okay, just relax.”

Freddie unexpectedly erupted, “It's not okay, Rog! That's why I can't tell you, but I can't live with this on my own!”

Roger furrowed his brows and rubbed Freddie’s shoulder supportively, circling his thumb over his neck. He could feel Freddie’s frantic pulse under the velvety pad of his thumb.

“Alright, it's not okay, then. But you can still tell me.”

“I…” He paused. It was so unlike Freddie to stutter so uncontrollably, but here he was, on the verge of a breakdown. Freddie was a composed person most of the time, so this was a disturbing experience for Roger.

“It's about John.”

The drummer’s interest was piqued. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Uhm, shit-- how do I explain this?” Freddie fumbled for the words. “He's not all that he seems. There's something wrong with him. Very wrong.”

“In what way?”

A stiff silence loomed over the room. The only noises were heavy, nervous breaths and the TV playing quietly in the background. Freddie’s eyes lingered on the television to give him a second to compose himself. He suddenly recalled the brutal murder on the news from last night and the way John silenced him with a finger to his lips. What if John was here right now? What if he was out the window, waiting for Freddie to say the words so he could burst in and kidnap him? No, that was ridiculous! There was no way John could hear them, even if he was outside.

 _But what if he was outside?_ Freddie started to panic again. Roger noticed and pulled his friend into a hug, resting his head against Freddie’s cheek. The frontman sighed shakily and sniffed back the tears. He was so stressed he had started to cry. The second Roger saw tears in those big brown eyes, he knew he couldn't let Freddie suffer alone any longer.

“I'm here, Freddie. Just breathe for me, yeah? 'Attaboy.”

Freddie took another deep breath through his nose, feeling a little more relaxed. He unconsciously nuzzled closer to Roger’s touch, relishing in the warmth and affection. 

“Thank you, darling. Sorry about that,” he apologised timidly, pulling back from the hug. A serious expression was firmly glued upon Freddie’s face, his eyes stern and lips straight. Nothing-- not even John-- could stop him now. With a final breath, he spoke the words.

“John’s a serial murderer.”

It came out much easier than Freddie was expecting. His eyes had shut instinctively so he didn't have to face Roger’s reaction. Freddie was so frightened, yet he didn't he couldn't pin the exact reason why.

The painful silence persisted until a loud shout tore through it.

“WHAT?!"

It felt like the Earth itself had suddenly stopped spinning. A throbbing sensation was drilling inside Freddie's skull. A loud, continuous drone was buzzing fiercely in his head. Oh, fuck, he should have just kept his mouth shut. This is going to tear the band apart and ruin any future they ever had together.

"What the fuck do you mean, he's a serial murderer!?”

Freddie felt sick again. Why was he angry? Was he angry at Freddie? The singer bit his lip until it hurt, clenching his eyes tighter. His hands were shaking, practically aching for a cigarette.

“I mean he's the London Gutter…” he said softly, voice merely above a whisper. His throat was tight-- practically closed-- making his words nearly silent.

“The London Gutter? Are you joking? You have to be pulling my leg.” Out of instinct and slight fear, Roger started to laugh. This was all a joke, it had to be. John wasn't a murderer. That itself was a joke to even imagine.

“I'm not. I'm being dead serious. Please, you have to believe me,” Freddie near begged, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. His eyes were open now, wide and wet with tears. “Please, Rog. I can't deal with this alone anymore.”

Roger shook his head in disbelief. He was utterly shocked. Why were they sitting around talking about it, when they could be doing something? 

“How long have you known?”

“... a week and some.” Freddie felt ashamed admitting it, worried that Roger would be furious. He wasn't far from wrong.

“What?! Why didn't you call the police?”

The anxiety was back, accompanied by the fear of John watching him through the window. He swore he saw overseeing eyes outside in the dark, but he was simply just hallucinating out of fear. At least, he hoped he was.

“He threatened me, Roger. He made me too frightened to tell anyone. He said he would kill me…” his voice caught, his eyes falling to the window again. “I was too scared. I'm sorry.”

Roger noticed his particular attention to the window and furrowed his eyes. He placed a tender hand on his cheek and turned his head to face Roger. “Just breath, Fred. I can deal with John if you don't want the police involved.”

Freddie leaned his cheek into Roger's hand, exhaling a nervous breath. His eyes tentatively flicked up to peer at his friend. “Deal with him? How?”

Roger shrugged, “Kill him, maybe.”

“No! You can't kill him!” Freddie exclaimed fearfully, abruptly pulling himself out of Roger's hand.

“Why not?”

There was an unmistakable hesitation. “Because then he’d know I told you…”

“He won't know shit if he's dead,” Roger responded gingerly. He couldn't wrap his head around why Freddie was so scared of John. Sure, he was a murderer, but he was scrawny! There was no way his little hands could wrap around someone's neck.

The frontman shook his head vigorously. “No, what if he survives? He might come after me and hurt me-- or kill me, or rape me--”

“Woah, woah, Freddie. Don't worry, he won't be bothering you again," he assured, entwining his hand with Freddie's. He brought Fred's hand over his chest and let it rest there, feeling the faint beat of his heart. Roger's heartbeat was unusually relaxed, while Freddie's was raging inside his chest. The singer found it peculiar but brushed it aside. It was illogical to worry about such trivial things when there were graver matters at hand. This all just seemed too easy. If something was dreadfully simple, that meant there was something wrong.

Was killing John the appropriate solution? No, it was not! Wouldn't calling the police be easier than risking being arrested for murder? He didn't want Roger to go to prison because of Fred’s own selfish mistakes. He didn't want Roger to end up dead, either. The longer he lingered on the thought, the worse he felt about even informing Roger in the first place.

“Wait, darling, do you really want to risk it?”

Roger smiled tenderly. “I'd risk anything for your safety. Besides, I'm not letting some bastard rot in prison instead of Hell because the police are too fucking slack to kill him themselves.”

That couldn't have been the real reason Roger wanted to kill him. His words didn't sound genuine; like he was hiding something much darker. Freddie couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why he had that hunch. It just happened to be there. He supposed it was the fact his friend wanted to kill someone, now.

Freddie felt himself subconsciously shift away from Roger. "There's nothing I can say that will change your mind, I'm guessing?" Freddie queried, voice quieter than it had been beforehand. Roger shook his head with a small smile.

"Trust me. You'll be glad once he's dead."

Freddie sighed, rubbing his arm anxiously. "Perhaps you're right, darling." That was a lie. There was nothing right about this and Freddie still regretted telling him. For all of John's flaws, he was an exceptional bassist. It would be a shame to have that talent gone to waste. It would be even worse to lose both John and Roger. It would be absolutely horrible if they both turned out to be psychos.

The band was at risk, though, that probably wasn't the greatest dilemma to worry about. _Why the fuck did Roger want to take someone's life?_

"I'm gonna sleep. We'll talk more in the morning," Roger announced, standing. "Goodnight, Fred." With that, he headed into his room and closed the door, presumably never to be seen again until the morning sun rose. He seemed too undisturbed about his morning plans-- plans that sounded too familiar to John's. It was a plan of murder. Fuck, was Freddie cursed? What was with all his friends suddenly turning into murderers?

It was fairly evident that Freddie wasn't going to sleep tonight. He didn't feel safe with Roger, now. This shit was all his fault, anyway. He didn't deserve to sleep.


	12. broken promises

The morning sun was blindingly bright, peering through the curtains and straight into Freddie’s tired eyes. The warmness of the sun was gentle on his skin, making him even more tired. He could see the streaks of sunlight behind his closed eyes, but he couldn't be bothered to open them. He swore he got around four hours sleep. His brain was not in the mood to let him wake up completely.

However, his brain seemingly changed its mind when he remembered the events of last night. He shot up abruptly, gasping. Oh, shit! He told Roger about John being a murderer, and then Roger wanted to kill John. That was fucking insane. His anxiety was already off the charts, and he had only just woken up. It all felt like some bizarre nightmare, one that you could never wake up from. 

Roger was planning to kill Deaky _today_. Freddie had to stop him-- he had to wake up from this nightmare. He didn't know why he hadn't tried harder last night to stop Roger. Perhaps he was too stressed to fight back, or maybe he truly wanted John dead. But… he didn't. Why the fuck didn't he want that scumbag dead? Maybe Roger was being logical.

“No!” That time, Freddie answered himself verbally. He cringed when he heard a muffled voice from the kitchen. Fuck, Roger was awake. 

“Fred? You good?”

The singer sighed and laid back down. He needed to think this through. First of all, Roger shouldn't kill John. There was nothing logical behind that. The drummer was being overprotective! He wasn't psycho like John or anything, he just wanted to protect Freddie. He understood that, but he just wished the blonde wasn't so overly protective of him to the point of murder.

Second of all… Freddie was still scared to call the police. He felt like puking at the thought of it. The risk of John finding out and hunting Freddie down was too high. He didn't want to face the murderer’s wrath. That's why he so desperately wanted to convince Roger to tell the police instead of taking matters into his own hands. Maybe if Freddie hid somewhere while Roger called them, John wouldn't be able to find him. 

“Freddie?”

Oh, right. Roger existed.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm alive--” yet barely. “What do you want?”

The drummer walked into the room, peering over the couch with a small smile. “I was just wondering if you were okay.”

“Yes, darling, I'm fine.”

“That's good.” There was a hesitation. Roger wanted to say something, it was obvious by the way his lips were trembling. “Uh, I know it's early as bollocks, but… can we talk about last night?”

As expected, Freddie felt his anxiety spike to almost unreadable scales. He swallowed past the knot that seemed to take unwelcome residence in his throat again. Another tennis ball for another day.

“Yes, of course. I was thinking about it earlier.”

“Right. So, about what I said--” Freddie stood up, continuing to listen to what Roger had to say. “-- I meant it. I just want you to be safe, and I feel that John would be better off dead. I don't want to risk him somehow escaping prison and finding you.”

The frontman never thought about that. That only made him more anxious, but it still wasn't a valid reason to commit homicide! Even if the guy did deserve to die!

“Roger, dear, you can't murder a man just because he's hurt others. That makes you no better than him.”

Those words clearly got through to Roger. The younger man looked away in thought and furrowed his brows. Freddie was right, but… 

“I'm not going to kill an innocent man, how can that be comparable to the atrocities he has committed?”

Freddie started to become irritated. Why the hell wasn't this getting through to him? Didn't he see that murder wasn't the answer? He marched around the couch and angrily dragged Roger into the kitchen. The drummer growled at the aggressive gesture, shrugging Freddie’s hold off him.

“Rog, please. I don't want you to hurt him. It's not right,” Freddie pleaded, his tone both a mix of fury and desperation.

Roger scoffed, inching closer. “Not right? He's the one that eats young girls! Why are you standing up for him?”

Freddie was boiling with anger at this point. Without thinking, he pointed an accusing finger in Roger’s face and jabbed it at him roughly, shoving him backwards. The drummer almost stumbled and fell, cursing his friend for hurting him out of the blue.

“Piss off!” Roger yelled, obviously enraged. He stormed back into Freddie's personal space, earning a lighter push back this time around. The drummer's nostrils were flared like an angry bull; his fierce eyes were beady and searching for a target to charge. If Freddie wasn't careful, that target could soon be him.

“I'm not standing up for him, asshole! I just don't want you to get arrested for homicide!”

Roger didn't want to listen to his friend. With new fuel to tease Freddie with, the blonde could push him to his limits.

“I bet that's not the reason. You like John, don't you? You wanna suck his cock?”

The singer inched forward and the tension in the air was thick. “Roger. Don't fucking start.”

The younger man couldn't have cared less. He drew closer, right in Freddie’s face, glaring at him menacingly.

“Oh, so you’re not denying it?” He taunted, grinning.

Freddie took a deep breath. Not from anxiety, but because of Roger's ignorance. 

“Darling, the only person here that's been trying to get on my dick, is you.”

Suddenly, he felt firm hands on his chest, and then he found himself on the floor with a throbbing pain blaring noisily in the back of his head. His vision went blurry and black dots littered the world he saw. 

Roger had pushed him over.

“I'm not trying to fuck you.” He heard Roger say. “I'm not a faggot.”

Freddie didn't believe a thing he was saying. He also didn't give a shit about what he was saying, because he was too worked up about Roger pushing him so roughly. He could have hit his head and died if he was unlucky enough.

“John has _never_ laid a hand on me after he admitted to being a murderer. You really are no better than him,” Freddie seethed, his nostrils flared in fury. “You're a cunt, Roger. A real fucking cunt.”

That's when the drummer finally realised he went too far. Nearly all signs of anger were wiped off his face almost instantly and he dropped to his knees to help Freddie up. The sudden change of mood was literally so surprising that Freddie thought he had somehow passed through time.

“I'm so sorry, Fred. I went too far. I'm sorry--”

Freddie shushed him. “Just help me up.”

Roger silenced himself and helped his friend onto his feet, standing his distance. He looked absolutely ashamed of himself.

There was an uncomfortable silence that Freddie knew Roger wasn't going to break. He sighed.

“Look, darling. Please… could you not hurt John?”

A shaky breath left Roger, but finally, he gave in.

“Fine. I won't hurt him,” he said quietly, looking over at his friend. His assertive tone from before was back, “I'm still not letting him near you.”

“That's fine, as long as neither of you ends up dead in the process.”

Roger nodded, biting his lip. “I'll try my best.”

“Good, now can we finally have some breakfast? I'm ravenous.”

“Yes, Fred,” Roger said with a slight chuckle, his voice still shaky. “I'll make some toast for you.”

-0-

Inside a small home, one that looked no different from the others that surrounded it, a man plucked his bass guitar. There was muffled screaming behind the door to the makeshift basement, but that was nothing new. It became background noise after a while, simply blending in with the drone of silence that buzzed in his ears.

John was trying to create a catchy melody on his bass, but he found it becoming increasingly difficult the longer the screams went on. He repeatedly forgot the chords and had to restrain himself from going downstairs and beating his hostage senseless. For a male hostage, he was a real screamer. It was usually the girls that never shut the fuck up. He ground his teeth together in frustration and played a final, angry note with a violent strum. 

There was a knock on the door. The anger boiling in John’s chest was beyond comprehensible for even the sanest of minds. Holy shit, if he had a gun right now, he’d probably kill himself out of spite. Why the fuck was there someone at the door at this time of night? 

Groaning angrily, he stood up and stormed over to the door. Unlocking it, he was rather surprised when he saw Roger standing out there. That didn't make him feel any better. He wanted Roger’s head on a goddamn spit.

“What do you want?” He spat, a little too viciously. Roger glared at him, taken aback by John's random outburst. There was fear in his eyes, but it wasn’t just because of John’s venomous tone. Something was wrong-- _Roger knew something_.

Roger’s voice was slightly shaky. It was hardly noticeable, but John noticed nearly everything.

“Jeez, mate, calm down. I just wanted to have a chat.”

The bassist peered behind him, sighing. “Look, right now isn't the best time--”

“Why? You can't be that busy at 11 pm.”

John mumbled under his breath, holding back the urge to punch the drummer. “There's just something going on, and I'd rather not have you inside--”

Roger stopped listening to him long before he finished. He pushed past him and into the house, jumping when he felt firm hands grip his shoulders. Perhaps forcing himself into the house wasn’t the best idea, who knew what John could do to him. He went to turn around and face John, but something caught his attention. There was a sound-- a sound of panic. It was coming from behind a door. Though the sound was muffled, Roger recognised it as screaming.

John noticed Roger’s attention to the door. “Roger, I’ll only ask you one last time to leave.”

“Or what?” The regret of those words hit him like a truck. Once again, he went to face John, but his interest kept returning to the muffled screaming sound. Fuck-- he needed to pay attention to John. One glance away from him and the psycho might plunge a knife into his neck. The drummer turned around and glared the younger man in the eyes.

“I think it’d be in your best interest for me not to answer that."

He was partially correct. As much as Roger really didn’t want to be murdered, he was also curious. They say curiosity killed the cat, and this seemed like a perfect situation where that phrase was scaringly real. Impulsively, Roger took the risk.

“Oh, really? What are you gonna do, stab me?”

“That would be too kind.”

Roger should have been shocked by that answer, but he wasn’t. Sure, yeah, John has always been weird and oddly threatening, but… His threats were more than just threats. They were truths.

John was observant; he noticed that Roger was nonchalant. Of course, that was perfectly fair, given that John tended to be passive aggressive most of the time, but this time was different. The difference was the fact there were desperate screams coming from behind the basement door, and there was no way Roger could not hear them. The drummer's eyes kept flicking toward the direction of the basement door, and his legs were twitching nervously.

There was a lingering silence. Then rather suddenly, John realised he had only one choice in the situation. Amused, he snickered to himself.

“Actually, I don’t think you should leave.”

Roger felt his entire stomach drop down to his balls. Never in his life had he felt such overwhelming terror wash over him like that. He knew... _John_ knew that Roger could hear the screams. He knew that Roger wouldn't keep his mouth shut if he left the house. Even Roger knew what that meant, and it was obvious that John wasn’t going to be as nice to Roger as he was to Freddie.

There was no room for debate. Once a murderer made up his mind, _then his mind was made._ It would only be a matter of time before Roger was found dead in a ditch with his guts torn open. He needed to finish what he came here for. Breaking Freddie’s trust was going to fuck up the band more than he would like, but it was better than having a murderer as the bassist.

Attempting to mask his actions, Roger reached for the knife in his jacket. All he had to do was stab the fucker, that would work, right? A good stab in the armpit could kill him quickly, and he doubted John knew how lethal a stab there could be. Hopefully, the knife was long enough to sever his Axillary artery, or Roger was fucked. He saw that John’s eyes were watching his hands fiddle around in his jacket, and the bassist grew suspicious.

_Now._

Roger swung the blade out and sliced John right across the neck, only cutting the skin lightly. John jerked backwards out of surprise and held a firm hand around his neck, releasing a groan that sounded more furious than pained. Adrenaline pumping through him, Roger lunged forward and attempted to jab him in the armpit, but John managed to dodge the attack-- though, that only ended with the knife inside his arm, instead.

“You cunt!” John’s tone was ridden with rage. He brandished his own knife, one much larger than Roger’s pocket knife, and swung it through the air. He directed the attack at Roger’s shoulder, managing to slice into him. As Roger urgently pulled away, a spray of blood hit him as his knife drew itself out of John’s arm. It was warm against his skin, but it made him feel _powerful._ Yes, he could take down this serial killer all by himself! He was stronger than John could ever be.

That feeling didn’t last long. John’s knife was bigger, and not only that, the bassist had years worth of practice. He had pounced onto the drummer and pushed him down onto the ground, knocking the pocket knife right out of his hand. With the butcher knife, John swung it down and cut the tips off three of Roger’s fingers. The knife almost cut through the floor, but Roger didn’t even realise what had happened, all he knew is that his hand hurt and it was lying in a puddle of something wet and warm. When he glanced over at his hand, the shock almost knocked him out.

“You are a pain in the ass, you know that, right?” John hissed, drawing his knife away. He was straddling Roger’s hips, keeping him secured against the wooden floor. Roger tried hitting him, which he succeeded in doing, but John returned the punch with one much harder. The drummer’s cheek began to bleed from the small cut John had administered, but that still didn’t stop him. 

When the blond tried to throw more punches and even scratch him, John reached his hands around Roger’s neck and smashed the back of his head against the floor, gripping tightly until Roger couldn’t breathe. The drummer’s hands desperately clawed at John’s arms as he started to choke.

“Stop trying to hit me, or I _will_ kill you,” he grunted, pushing his thumbs under his jaw until Roger felt like he would puke. “I don’t want to hurt you, Roger.”

 _That was bullshit!_ He was trying to stab him! He fucking cut his fingers off for no reason! Now he was strangling him! All John spoke was lies.

“When I let go of your neck, can you not punch me, please?” In their current position, Roger couldn’t really nod. John took the risk and released his grasp, watching with furrowed brows as the boy gasped for breaths.

“Fuck… fuck you. Just kill me and get it over and done with,” Roger snapped, holding back a punch. 

John sighed. “Well, see, as I said, I don’t want to hurt you. Just stay still for a second.”

“What--” Before he knew it, there was a hypodermic needle in John’s hands, full of greenish fluid. Panic flooded into his system, and if he didn’t get out of this situation, that fluid would flood his system instead. 

“Don’t panic, it’s just Etorphine. It won’t hurt.” He didn’t have time to fuss over Roger’s childish struggles. The needle was plunged into the blond’s neck and the large dose of Etorphine was injected, almost immediately sedating Roger. The last thing Roger did was slap John, but it was so light that the killer hadn’t even felt it. Finally, the small man was in a deep sleep, and John could finally get him where he wanted.

The basement.


	13. a game of potential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HhHhH sorRy i took so long to write another chapter,,,,,,im a lazy writer Oof but here u go!! mwah

It was the nauseating stench that initially roused Roger from his deep sedation. He shot upright but felt a taut constraint pull him back down. The back of his head hit something solid and a spark of pain shot up him, sending his senses into a frenzy of confusion and pain. Groaning, he groggily blinked open his sore eyes and looked around. The room was completely dark, even the walls surrounding him were impossible to make out. Now that he was aware of the constraint around his neck, he leaned up slowly until the chain stopped him from going any further. It was uncomfortable with something tightly coiled around his neck, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. It was clearly a metal collar connected to a chain, he could feel the rough texture of the steel plastered against his skin. The chain links rattled as he moved, another frightening reminder of the how absolutely fucking stuck he was.

He should have listened to Freddie. He shouldn't have put on a mask and lie to his friend like that. It was wrong, and now he was suffering the consequences. 

There was sound. A human sound, like someone trying to speak while gagged. Was there someone else in here? They must have heard Roger’s violent awakening. 

Suddenly, the screech of steel scraping over rough concrete burst into the room, instigating two separate gasps from within the room. A dim beam of light entered the room, shrouding a silhouette of a man. This was no time for bullshit mysteries: it was obviously John. He slammed the steel door shut, just after switching the basement’s lights on. A flickering flash of a blue light encased the room, but the glow seemed to scuttle across the walls as if it were alive. Roger soon discovered that the reason behind that was the fact that the basement light was absolutely covered in small, black insects that seemingly had infested the entire instalment. Roger felt sick.

The second thing to catch his attention was the person he had heard earlier. It was a young man, probably in his early 20’s, his mouth covered by duct tape and lying on his side. His limbs were tied with rope, completely constricting him to the concrete floor. With the light on, the large dark stains splattered across the floor were visible, and Roger noticed he was sitting in what seemed to be a previous bloodbath of some kind. Even the chains were stained by whatever had happened here.

The other hostage was staring at Roger with pleading eyes as if he was expecting Roger to save him. The man’s eyes were scaringly wide and horribly bloodshot, it was pretty obvious he had been crying his eyes out beforehand. 

“Goodmorning, Rog! How was the sleep? Relaxing?” John greeted gleefully. His lips were curled into a grin that was too joyful to be real. 

Roger didn't reply. 

“Okay, I can understand that. I did stab you with a needle, so it's fair if you're angry with me.” He began to approach, his head tilted at an angle to view Roger better. The man's hands were entwined together with fiddling thumbs. Roger wasn't stupid, he could tell that John was having troubles with controlling his temper. The bassist looked ready to explode. He really needed to work on his fake smile.

“But… I think it's more fair if I'm angry at you,” he continued, dimming his smile down to a more appropriate believability. However, that only made it more obvious that John wasn't afraid of cutting Roger up like shredded cheese.

“You come into my house uninvited, you stab me, and try to kill me,” he exclaimed, acting as if Roger had no valid reason to do so. “What did I ever do to you? You're lucky I even had the strength to stop myself from disembowelling you.”

Roger had to swallow back his nausea. Shit, John could have killed him beforehand. What the fuck. That was the most horrifying thing he had ever heard someone say to him.

“I know what you are,” Roger finally spoke, keeping his head up and his eyes stern. Showing weakness would be a terrible idea in a situation like this.

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“A filthy fucking murderer, that’s what,” Roger spat, baring teeth as he became agitated.

“Who told you that? Freddie?” The manner in which John said the singer’s name was nowhere near joyous. He was angry-- very fucking angry. He was having a hard time holding back his fury; that much was obvious. His fist was trembling, his foot was bouncing, and his eyes somehow looked like they were sweating. Was that even possible?

Roger had to lie. He couldn’t get Freddie killed for his own stupid mistakes. He’d die from the overwhelming guilt.

So, lying is exactly what he did. “No, why would he tell me? Does he know, too?” 

The murder growled under his breath, shaking his head to dismiss the conversation from going any further. “Forget about it. I’m not here to talk about Freddie, we’re here to talk about you.”

Roger gulped nervously.

“See, I can’t have you on the streets knowing my ‘deep, dark secret’. That can mean two things: one, I lock you in this basement until the rats eat you alive. Or two, I can change your mind on the whole… murder thingy.”

‘Murder thingy’. He’s saying it as if it’s some sort of game. To be honest, it probably is a game to him. All his victims are little game pieces, running around the board as John chases them to their grisly deaths. Besides that, there was no way John could convince Roger that this fucked up game of his was even remotely okay. Murder was murder! Murder was a crime! The only people that deserved to get murdered were murderers themselves.

“What makes you think you could change my mind?” He quizzed venomously, glaring at the bassist. John took no notice of his glare and continued to smile rather menacingly. He managed to make smiles so… wrong. It didn’t look right, it was like his emotions were confused. He was angry, but his lips were still twisted into a smile.

“Oh, trust me, Roger. Everyone is capable of murder, and I know exactly how to unveil that dark desire.”

Roger didn’t like the sound of that. “I doubt it.”

“Doubt it as much as you like, but you won’t be doubting it once there’s blood on your hands,” John said casually, throwing a smirk at Roger. “I hope whatever bullshit lie you told Freddie before you left to find me keeps him from suspecting me. You’re going to be down here for a while, and I would hate if Freddie were to get in my way.”

An immediate protective instinct kicked in, and Roger almost choked himself on the steel collar as he lurched forward. “Don’t you dare fucking hurt him.”

John made a small chuckle. “I won’t, unless he gets in the way. I really do believe this band can get somewhere, but not without Freddie.” 

The drummer agreed, but he didn’t feel like verbally admitting it. He was far too exasperated.

“Anyways!” John begun, clasping his hands together excitedly. “I need your input before we start. Do you prefer choice 1, or choice 2?”

Roger was confused. He didn’t know what John was referring to until he remembered their little chat beforehand. It was either let the rats eat him, or become a monster. Both choices weren’t pleasant, but he didn’t particularly fancy the idea of letting rats feast on his flesh. Of course, he didn’t like the idea of taking someone’s life either, but it definitely had more favourable advantages than dying painfully and slowly. 

“Do I have to choose?”

There was no need for John to reply. He simply gave Roger an irritated look, and that was enough to get the drummer to choose.

An audible gulp was heard, and then, “... Choice 2.” He regretted saying it-- he felt ashamed, especially when he saw the other captive lose all hope on his face. Not that he had much in the first place, but he couldn’t even bear to look at Roger anymore. He curled up in a ball and started to rock himself back and forth.

Roger could hear the smile behind John’s voice. “Good choice, Roger. I knew you had it in you.”

It was difficult to hold back the fierce “fuck you!” that Roger wanted to scream, but it didn't seem too appropriate at the time. The way John was talking to him made him feel small and inferior, and Roger despised it. It made his fury boil; that this little scrawny man had the audacity to speak to him like that. Just because Roger was locked in his basement didn’t give John the right to act like he was a big, tough guy.

“Let's start our little game. We’re going to see how long it takes you to lose your mind down here,” John explained, squatting down to make direct eye contact with Roger. He wanted to make sure the drummer heard every last thing he had to say.

“You're going to be trapped in the dark, unable to move, no one to talk to, deafened by the silence, and you will go bonkers. I'm just curious as to when.”

Absolute fear paralysed Roger. His lips were frozen, yet trembling, and his brain had seemingly paused to give itself a second to comprehend what it had been told. Solitary confinement? No, fuck no. That's unnecessarily cruel! 

“You can't do this,” he managed to spurt, voice shaking. “Please.”

“I can do it, and I will,” John sneered. “You tried to kill me, Roger. I don't know why you think I'm going to be nice to you.”

Roger had to try-- he had to. Maybe, just maybe, John had empathy. Anything he said could perhaps spark some empathic afterthoughts. He just needed to try.

“We’re a band, John. Queen could really get big in the future. Do you really want to ruin that, just for your sick, fucking fantasies?”

John narrowed his glare. “I know what you're trying to do. It's not going to work.”

 _But he can still try_. “Just, please, tell me why you hate me so much. It must be something other than the fact I tried to stab you.”

“Do you really want to know why?”

“Yes.” No, actually. But this conversation could lead to something good. Perhaps a victorious outcome was promised.

“I think you're an ignorant, loud-mouthed wanker, for one,” then he moved closer, much to Roger’s dismay. He could smell John’s hairspray; even the chapstick on his lips. If Roger puckered his lips, they probably would've brushed along John’s. He was uncomfortably close.

“Secondly, I know you and Freddie are shagging. I didn't pick you as a nancy boy, Rog.”

There was a hint of discomfort in Roger’s tone, “We’re not shagging! What the fuck gave you that idea?”

John scoffed. “You two act like recently married fucksticks that can't get their hands or eyes off each other. It makes me sick.”

“You sound jealous.”

The sudden silence from John did not go unnoticed. Fuck, that meant Roger was probably right, but that also meant that John wasn't going to be happy with him.

“Are you calling me a poof? Do you really think I want another man’s cock down my throat?” As John’s face grew closer, it only made his statement contradictory. It felt like he was trying to kiss him.

“No, of course not, I just--”

“Well, you're right.”

Oh. 

John cleared his throat, backing away. “You got me off track, dammit. Let's just start the game already.” He sounded inpatient-- flustered, even. He stood up quickly and walked to the door, flicked off the light, and left without saying a word. 

Suddenly, Roger missed having John’s presence in the room. It was lonely in the dark, in the silence… well, he wasn't completely alone. The other kidnapped man was nearby, probably still curled up in a ball. He was silent, but definitely not asleep.

-0-

An entire day had passed, and Roger was nowhere to be seen. The drummer hadn't been at the flat when Freddie came home after doing a quick shop, but he originally didn't think much of it. A few hours had passed, but it still seemed fairly normal. Roger was probably out at the club, picking up girls and drinking his tits off. Then it was 10 pm, and he still hadn't come home. That was when Freddie began to worry, but it would've been too risky to call the police. What if Roger came back home after he called the police? Freddie would’ve looked like an overprotective mother.

It wasn’t unusual for Roger to go missing the whole night and up rocking on home with a girl in his arms, a black eye, or a drunken tongue cruder than a sailor. Roger was a party animal, it was just how he lived his life. The frontman shouldn’t have to worry; he hadn’t worried about Roger’s late-comings beforehand. It was much harder to not stress about things with a serial killer living by your side. 

Freddie eventually slept, but Roger was still nowhere to be seen. He didn’t crash on home, yelling his ass off and knocking shit over, waking Freddie. No, the singer had a good night’s rest, and that just wasn’t right at all. He woke up early in the morning, but not even his tired brain could keep him in bed. He waddled out of his room to check the flat in search of Roger, but the drummer still wasn’t home. There had to be something wrong… right? What other reason did he have to be late? Did he crash at a friend’s house? Got drunk and slept on the road? Maybe he even got beat up and sent to the hospital, or got in a fight and sent someone else to hospital. _Fuck, why can’t Freddie catch a break?_

First, Freddie called Brian to see if the drummer crashed at his place. It was a no, he hadn’t seen Roger all day. The next call was hesitated, but he swallowed down enough anxiety to make it. He called John, but he never picked up the phone. He was probably asleep-- _or slicing up Rog._ Did he have any motive to kidnap Roger? It’s not like John knew that Rog knew about his murderous ways. Unless… Fuck, did Roger go over there? He promised that he wouldn’t, but the blond tended to be quite a hothead. He probably went over there out of spite.

Dammit, Freddie had to deal with this. If he wasn’t careful, Roger would end up with his guts inside a cannibal’s fridge. He had to make sure John felt safe, and the police definitely weren’t the definition of safe when you were a cannibalistic serial killer. John would have nothing to lose once the police were on his ass. If he managed to escape his house after he killed Roger, then the entire band was in trouble. Freddie didn’t want to be responsible for the death of his friends. Perhaps Freddie could pop on over and have a chat, and hopefully, he could convince John that Freddie hadn't told Roger about his dark secret. He could also convince John not to kill Roger, then else his little trip over to the bassist's house would've been pointless.

The chances seemed thin, but fuck it, it was better than waiting around for Roger to die. It wouldn’t take long to run there, so Freddie quickly threw on a leather jacket and sprinted like hell. If Roger wasn’t at John’s place, then maybe the police were the most ideal people to go to.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Mockery of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456534) by [krispyscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles)




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